Paradise Lost
by Leraiv Snape
Summary: Sequel to Forbidden Fruit! Chapter 15: Fallout from Dumbledore's death.
1. The Child

Disclaimer: All characters, places, etc. belong to JKR, Warner Bros., Scholastic and others. The plot alone is my creation.

A/N: Thanks again to my beta, Aestril, who has kindly consented to edit my errors for a while longer! This story is now totally AU, as I will not be following the plotline of Deathly Hallows. I also want to take this moment to add that "Paradise Lost" is a sequel that directly follows on the heels of the first fic, and not a companion. The first half of the story is "Forbidden Fruit", and I strongly suggest reading it, as the story that follows is unlikely to make much sense without at least a vague knowledge of what happens in the previous piece. Be that as it may, one can probably pick up the necessary bits from reading this if you are absolutely opposed to reading "Forbidden Fruit". Enjoy!

The Child

_June, 1998_

The lantern swung high over a craggy face as a wand materialized directly in front of Harry's nose. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ron, too, paralyzed by pointed wood a few inches from his heart.

'Oh, honestly!' snapped an impatient voice behind him. Another head full of red tresses shoved forward, their prize held in front of her like a truce flag. 'Enough! Ma-Moody, Kingsley, it's us.'

'Passwords and safety questions,' Mad-Eye replied firmly, wand refusing to waver from its place off Harry's face. 'You know the rules, Miss Weasley. If you _are_ indeed Miss Weasley.'

'The password is _Aunt Muriel's Swordfish_,' Harry muttered.

'Question: How did you save Sirius Black in your third year?'

Harry blinked. The question always changed, and some of them were getting personal – and incriminating. Of course, Moody knew all the answers already.

'Erm…Time Turner. Me and…' he paused, wincing slightly. It still hurt to think of her, bushy-haired with the big front teeth she had shrunk during their fourth year, and the way they had been before last year - joined at the hip and harder to sever than an Unbreakable Vow. Before Sirius had died. Before Dumbledore. Before Snape…he swallowed and finished his answer as Moody's blue eye widened threateningly. 'Me and Hermione used it to save Buckbeak and Sirius.'

'Good lad. Now him.' Kingsley asked Ron a question, and then Moody took Ginny, her foot tapping as she carried the huge wooden crate that held an object it had taken them a year to find.

'Are we finished?' she asked.

'Yes. Is that it?'

'Of course. And it's bloody heavy.'

888

_January, 1997_

Hermione leaned her forehead against the glass, misting the window in front of her dark eyes as her breath coalesced in a ragged circle and started to retreat, only to become denser as another breath expelled from her lungs, staring blankly at the lake glinting under the moon. She heard the dormitory door open and shut softly, and the pattern of footfalls behind her that told her it was Lavender, and not Parvati, standing there.

'Hermione?' The other girl's voice sounded timid and awkward at her back, and Hermione did not trouble herself to restrain her sigh, sending an entire window pane up in what looked like frost. After months of failure in penetrating her mood and secrets, Ron and Harry had set Lavender and Ginny after her. Between them, she'd had no peace since Christmas, as they were no subtler than screech owls, though the subject had changed. Prior to break, they had wanted to know who she was seeing. Now, as she refused to eat in the Great Hall, and her eyes were permanently red from tears she never even felt falling, their concern took a more immediate form, and she couldn't leave her bed without offers of food or comfort or a listening ear.

She swallowed, wincing at the rawness of her throat, the result of too many quashed tears and screaming nightmares, emotions tamped down to keep her numb. _'A person couldn't feel all that at once. They'd explode.'_ She had snapped at Ron when he'd said it, only to discover him correct. If she plumbed the depths of her misery, the howling of her pain and fury would rival a werewolf's. There was no sympathetic ear. No matter what Ginny or Lavender thought, empathy would vanish into horror if she told them the half of it.

She caught herself desperately wishing that she had not seen him again after break, that he had gone to Voldemort and simply never returned. That she could grieve him peacefully, completely, and go forward with her life, the fantasies of what might have been intact and unscarred. She cursed her own stupidity for not knowing, for not realizing, that no word from him over the two-week holiday had meant nothing would ever be forthcoming from him again.

She had torn down to his dungeon office as soon as she had deemed it safe enough to go, impatience to see him singing in her veins, eager to give him the gift she had found for him over Christmas. His mind had been closed as ever over the break, and her fingertips almost burned with the knowledge that they would soon touch the sculpture-sharp angles of his cheekbones, the thin mouth that spoke so harshly and kissed her with abandon.

_I should have known. When I walked into his office, I should have seen…_ but she had not, willfully blind to all except the vision of their reunion in her daydreams, and she seemed powerless to stop the scene that once again, for the thousandth time in the four weeks since it had happened, unfolded on the inside of her eyelids.

_She hurtled through his door, wards peeling back before her elemental magic, the door swinging in her wake. She turned to shut it carefully – privacy was essential – and then immediately crossed to the man swathed in black seated at the desk. She had not seen him for two weeks, and though her elements seemed content, she had missed him dreadfully, even the ability simply to look at him, to watch him teach…_

_He did not look up at her, and as she came around the desk, reaching for one long hand, he removed it and looked up at her, shaking his long hair away from his face. He was gaunter than she remembered, cheekbones seeming to slash his face rather than give it shape, and his skin was slightly greyer._

'_To what do I owe this…dubious pleasure, Miss Granger?'_

_Hermione stopped as surely as if he had punched her, hand arrested halfway to his, mind going completely blank. He hadn't called her 'Miss' in a private setting for months, and it was a cold and complete reminder that she was his student – and that her thoughts couldn't possibly be more inappropriate for a schoolgirl. Suddenly, she drew her hand back swiftly, and clasped it behind her back, awkwardness fighting with the cold confidence that he always exuded. Her lessons from observing him and occasional glimpses of his mind won, and she took a step backwards, her voice cool when she answered._

'_I merely thought that it would be…polite…to come see you, Professor. And to ask if your break went well.'_

'_As I don't see why it is any concern of a Gryffindor's what I did, I can't find a reason for you to be here,' he replied, scratching a long scrawl of vitriolic comment across an essay, his last batch to grade before classes started the next day._

'_Snape?' She could not keep the question, or the fear, out of her voice. But she couldn't out-Slytherin him at his own game, and somehow his mental shielding seemed to have grown stronger over the break, for she felt not even a flicker of emotion, nothing to indicate what he was truly thinking or feeling._

'_I am your professor, Miss Granger,' he said, and his eyes lifted for the first time. Impersonal, flat, dark orbs stared at her as if she no more than a slightly irritating specimen he might be putting into a cauldron, or pickling in one of the jars behind his desk. Hermione felt her world shifting under her feet, crumbling beneath her faster than she could hold as his dulled voice re-shaped the terms of their relationship yet again. 'You will address me as such, or call me sir.'_

'_What happened?' she asked, throwing caution and sense to the wind. Even his elements hadn't so much as spit in her direction, so tame for the wildness they had displayed before Christmas. What had he learned?_

'_Nothing has "happened" as you put it. Or,' he finally set aside his pen, and his gaze truly focused on her as he turned in his chair, 'were you expecting some kind of welcome, perhaps, Miss Granger?'_

_Their link provided him with the answer he needed, as she could not control the flash of feeling, and he shrugged, slowly, deliberately, aloofly. 'I have found a way to control the magic. If you thought I enjoyed sharing my bed with a Mudblood, you were sorely mistaken. We need not concern ourselves with false niceties any longer.'_

_Hermione couldn't breathe. He had to be joking…she had to be having a nightmare… she had _not_ just heard that word, that despicable, filthy word, fall so casually from his mouth…and…_niceties?_ She had _felt _him, she knew she was more than just another face in his classroom…_

_He had gone back to his papers. He worked for a few minutes in silence, then, 'What are you waiting for, Miss Granger? You must have a life to return to, and I need to continue working.'_

'_I…' her voice didn't work. The coldness exuding from him now was identical to the careless demeanor with which he had treated her for five years until the accident in the storeroom. He meant exactly what he said. In two weeks, he had found a way to harness the magic…and if all of their interaction had been solely because of the bond…_

_She wanted to scream, cry, rage until her throat bled with emotion. But a curious numbness had settled, a fragile feeling. If she moved, it would be real. If she stayed where she was, perhaps he could take it back, make it unsaid-_

'_You are wasting my time.' He had risen from his chair, black eyes touched with impatience. 'Leave. Now.'_

_She was not going to wake from this nightmare. And as he made to move toward her, something within her broke, and came clawing out._

_She slapped him, unleashing the same fury that had rendered Draco Malfoy speechless three years prior. The sting of her hand connecting with his face was so satisfying that without planning, she struck his other cheek with her left hand._

_There were no words to express herself, but she turned on her heel and marched out of the dungeon office, wards blistering to nothing in the face of her storm, feeding her rage, encouraging flamma to fan the fire. Anger was so much better than sorrow…and despair._

_But as she entered her dormitory, her one private space, iciness invaded her abdomen, and spread slowly throughout her body. Somewhere, perhaps in the center of her heart, something had died. And though she barely recognized it, Hermione knew it would never return._

He had given her no second glances in class, and she kept her eyes averted whenever she saw him. His mind remained impregnable, the walls that defended it formidable and sheer. For the first two weeks, she had taken savage pleasure in knowing that he shared her hurt, knowing that he could hear every single thought she had about him. But as no evidence of guilt, caring…or even annoyance at her assault emerged, she reigned in her emotions, conceding to herself for the final time that she simply didn't matter enough to care, that she didn't warrant the consideration of being hated as Harry did, but simply of being invisible, like every other Gryffindor that was neither a Potter or a Longbottom.

'Erm…Hermione?' Lavender Brown's voice intruded on the scene again as Hermione saw once more that utterly lackluster shrug, the single gesture in the entire conversation that had convinced her of his sincerity – his total lack of interest. She would give much not to have seen it, not to remember it…

'I have food,' the other girl offered. Hermione caught a whiff of fresh-baked bread, grilled chicken and boiled potatoes. She almost gagged.

'Thanks, but I'm not hungry,' Hermione told her. In spite of the puffiness of her eyes, she knew her voice was rock-steady, and felt a flash of ridiculous pride in the tricks she had learned from her bond mate.

'You need to eat. You'll starve if you don't.' Lavender's voice was more severe, and Hermione felt a stir of appreciation tinge the aggravation she felt for the woman that Lavender had become over the summer, the silly girl vanished and replaced by this caring, motherly roommate. Even if she was almost as nosy as Molly Weasley at her worst.

Unfortunately, Hermione had no need or desire for a mother now. Her own mother would not be able to comprehend the depths and complexities of her emotions regarding her Defense professor, and neither Molly Weasley nor Minerva McGonagall, her surrogate parents, would begin to understand or condone the aberrant behavior that had landed her in this hideous position. Hermione contained a snort. She, herself, wouldn't be sympathetic. _A schoolgirl falls in love with a man twice her age and expects to be able to hold his attention? Especially _that_ man and his attention?_ And the weight settled further into her stomach, bringing a fresh onslaught of tears that she tried to strangle with Lavender at her back. _The best in our year_, she remembered Harry's words as Slughorn had recited them the first day of Potions that fall.

_Brilliant. If only he knew what I mess I make of love…_

'Hermione?' Lavender sounded tired of being ignored.

'I don't want it.' She allowed an edge to creep into her voice.

'That's really too bad. Harry, Ron, Ginny and even Neville, are worried sick about you.'

'They don't need to be. It's just nerves.'

'They might have believed that coming back to term, but no one does now,' Lavender snapped. 'The least you can do is let your friends help you.' There was a silence, and Lavender heaved a sigh. 'Hermione…what are your friends for, if not to talk to? To express worry to? How many battles have you fought with them? Why are you taking this one on by yourself?'

Hermione finally turned to look at the girl she had shared a room with for five and a half years and never really known. Lavender stared. Tears rimmed her eyes in red, making the rest of her face stark white in comparison. In the dim light, Hermione looked ill, exhausted and ready to collapse.

But it was the eyes that struck the other Gryffindor. She did not know Hermione Granger well, only that teachers loved her (with the definite exception of Sybill Trelawney), she, Harry and Ron fought like family – with each other and for each other – and that she had always been unflappable except when faced with exams. Her eyes had always been expressive - delighted, smug, knowing, fearful, furious.

Now those eyes were flat behind her water-heavy lids, deadened and shuttered. Through all she had seen and done, Hermione had retained some of the vestiges of a child, and now-

_She looks like Harry_, Lavender realized, surprise catching painfully somewhere below her ribs. And she did. Utterly worn down, completely without hope, her brown eyes reflecting in the same dulled way as his jade – alive, but only just. And holding on to or for what neither could say.

'There are some problems that can only be faced on your own,' Hermione replied, and if her eyes were lifeless, her voice became more so. 'Harry and Ron – and even Ginny and you - cannot pull me through this, you wouldn't even know where to begin.'

888

Neville slid into a seat next to Ginny at breakfast. 'Any change?' he asked. He did not have to add a name. Like the month between Harry's capture and the battle at the Riddle House during fall term, the upper-year Gryffindors had closed rank around Hermione Granger, though their fierce defense from other students and even professors' gentle inquiries seemed to go unnoticed by the witch this time.

Ginny sighed in exasperation and smiled at the loyal boy. Not wanting to smother her, knowing that Harry, Ron, Lavender and Ginny so often tailed her they seemed like solid shadows, Neville had been inquiring gently after Hermione every day since term had started and she had begun to rapidly decline. Rumor escalated about the young woman, previously acknowledged as Hogwarts' resident, loud, Know-It-All, who had been strained during the autumn term and was now mute. Neville had a large hand in deftly refuting the stories filled with rampant speculation that laced various conversations, pointing out again and again that Hermione's parents were Muggles, and that the increasing news of Muggle killings was bound to hurt her more than many.

'None,' Ginny answered. She was so far past worrying for the older girl that she had already made up her mind. 'I'm going to talk to Professor McGonagall about it. Today.'

Neville nodded slowly, then twisted his mouth to the side. 'I'm not sure Hermione would appreciate that,' he muttered. 'You know how much we don't like, you know, the teachers to get involved.' Ginny knew he was thinking of their rescue attempt with Harry in the Riddle House, and the disaster in the Department of Mysteries. But she shook her head.

'This goes beyond any of us. We can't plan for this, or think of a clever solution. She won't eat, and she also won't talk. Professor McGonagall should know. It's not like her...and…' Ginny glanced around and opened her mouth, but Neville had beaten her to the conclusion.

'Harry and Ron need her – which means the rest of us need her – because she's the researcher and the planner, in short, the power behind Harry's throne. So if the professors can help, we need her back as soon as possible.'

'Right. We very likely can't win without her, given that Harry has needed her in every encounter since they were eleven years old.'

Neville rocked back in his seat, thinking, and Ginny's mouth quirked in a mirthless half-smile as she expounded on her point. 'The Philosopher's Stone? Never would have made it past the potions without her. The Basilisk? Wouldn't have known what he was facing. Sirius Black? Couldn't have saved him without her Time Turner. The Triwizard? Would've failed the first task without her. The D.A. was her idea. Department of Mysteries? If he'd listened to her, Sirius might still be alive. And it was she who planned the rescue and created the Portkeys to the Riddle House last fall. Do _you_ think he can win this war without her standing at his back?'

Neville's dark eyes were wide as he recalled the stories – a few which he had been present for, most that were becoming legend – of Harry Potter's triumphs. What Ginny said was true – Harry might carry the Chosen title and the _Prophet _headlines, but he would have been no more than a collection of broken bones and poisoned veins at eleven without Hermione Granger's ability to think the trio out of every situation. The tally was impressive, but Ginny lifted her head sadly as the girl in question strode past, her eyes fixed firmly on the floor, and sat between Harry and Ron, nibbling on a piece of toast and giving monosyllabic answers to their friendly questions.

There were curses that sapped power, and hexes that made the one affected permanently depressed. While Ginny prayed her friend had been hit with one of these, a solid knot in her gut told her a different story. No magical malady this – it was one of the heart. But Hermione had kept herself so closed off that the younger witch couldn't begin to guess who might be the cause. That nonsense about McLaggen had been exactly that – nonsense – and Ginny couldn't imagine anyone, from the entire student body, that would cause Hermione the symptoms of broken-heartedness that she was manifesting.

And whatever or whoever the problem, it had to be solved. For the sickly-thin, pale girl with limp hair and a jaw line too sharp from weight loss seated between two baffled boys was not the Hermione that would make it possible for Harry to defeat Voldemort.

888

'I'll get that, Hermione,' Harry reached for her schoolbag, which was still filled with close to forty pounds in books. Never a big girl, Hermione had always carried up to one third of her weight on her back. But as she grew ever-thinner, Harry was beginning to worry that it was too great a burden, her spine bent under the pressure of the pages.

'I'm fine, Harry,' she objected, fingers extending towards the strap.

'Not a problem,' he told her quickly, adding the load to his own texts as he slung it over one shoulder. His back twinged with the unwelcome addition, but other than a fleeting grimace, he did not acknowledge it.

Ron watched them covertly under the cover of adding liberal amounts of jam to his toast. The only good thing about Hermione's suddenly fragile condition was that Harry, brooding alternately between the prophecy, Snape and Malfoy, appeared to have given that up entirely, and had become a devoted, gentle friend. All his obsessing at the Burrow over Christmas had vanished in the first twenty-four hours of their return, in the face of Hermione pale, grieving features. He had even allowed Ginny to offer him some comfort, and Ron had seen their black and red heads bent together in the common room, or vanishing out the portrait hole. His sister had told him a little of their conversation before the holidays, and Ginny had steadfastly avoided him all Christmas. Ron had been wary of Harry's renewed attention to his sister, but withheld judgment. If Hermione's weakness meant that Harry was once again willing to accept help, it meant that her private pain, whatever it was, had at least borne some healthy, if stunted, fruit.

'Ron, hurry or we'll be late,' Lavender chivvied from his other side. Ron suppressed a sad smile. Apparently, no one believed that he and Harry could get anywhere without Hermione – for now that she had become mute on the subject of their classes and coursework, Lavender had swiftly picked up the slack of nagging them.

Hermione met Harry's eyes, and the quiet, pooled pain in his green matched the lackluster quality of her chocolate, and she acquiesced silently, allowing him to carry her bag and guide her out of the Great Hall towards Transfiguration. Ron and Lavender walked less than three feet behind them, and Neville and Ginny trailed a short distance behind the red-head's brother. Halfway across the hall, Luna Lovegood joined them from the Ravenclaw table, and her dirty blond hair bent to Ginny, whose long locks shook as she answered a question in the negative.

None of them were aware of the eyes, two pairs of blue and one black, that tracked them from the Head table and out the doors, watching the sealed, smooth dynamic of their seven determined students, none of the owners pleased with what they observed.

888

Harry glanced sidelong at Hermione as she stood in class, waving her wand in a perfunctory manner at the iris that was supposed to become an iridescent-winged butterfly. The small, folded petals gleamed with a sheen not natural to their purple coloring, but the plant remained resolutely a flower, with little indication that it was going to turn into an insect.

Professor McGonagall, watching the class both from near her desk and other vantage points, noticed the difficulty her best student was having, and frowned. Hermione's work had been suffering badly this term, and after five and a half years of flawless performance, she knew far better than to assume that Hermione was no longer paying as much mind to her schoolwork.

No…the older woman's mouth thinned as she watched Hermione's wand flit through the air again and again, and the iris only grudgingly showed any improvement in the direction of flight. McGonagall would wager that Hermione's abrupt departure from academics, eating and sleeping, judging by the dark smudges that continued to deepen under her large eyes, had much to do with the irascible Defense professor for whom McGonagall felt a deep affection sometimes akin to that of a mother. Not that Snape knew that. She knew the consequences of those close to members Voldemort's inner circle, and had no wish to visit upon herself the fate of being used against him. For the sake of the war effort, that situation could only mean the end of her life.

But given the state of her precocious young student, a low-level fury had begun to boil. Clearly, he had done something to distress her deeply, as her ability to do magic was so badly affected-

Fed up with her continuing failure, Hermione set her wand down on her desk and reached out to touch the green stalk with one hand, summoning terra from within automatically, not knowing where the instinct came from. It came at her call, not the torrent that she had struggled with all autumn, but a fine trickle, the right amount to alter the living daughter of earth lying on her desk. In the space it took to breathe, wandlessly and wordlessly, a butterfly rose from Hermione's desk and flapped its delicate, translucent wings toward the professor.

A stab of triumph was married to a brief flare of curiosity – how had her magic enabled her to do that? – before fading back into the smothering indifference that cloaked her when she wasn't choking her tears.

Exhaustion slammed through her like a tidal wave, and she seized her desk, desperately seeking support, even as she heard Harry's voice as if through a long tunnel.

'Hermione?! Ron, help!'

McGonagall looked at the tiny, perfectly transfigured creature that had landed on her finger, lifting her head at the distress in Harry's voice, she saw Hermione Granger stagger, clutch violently at her desk, and fold gently, tumbling towards the floor in a silent, smooth sweep.

888

'Overworking herself, I shouldn't wonder,' Madam Pomfrey clucked disapprovingly as Harry and Ron bent over their friend's pale face, their own features warped with concern. Lavender had made to follow them out the door, when McGonagall's crisp voice had reminded her that some people had to stay in the class, and that Messrs Potter and Weasley had made many trips with Miss Granger to the hospital wing without Miss Brown's assistance. What Harry and Ron did know was that had she not been teaching, Minerva McGonagall herself would have been sprinting to the ward by way of her husband's office, but her fear for the young woman would have to wait. Tearing out of her classroom in a panic was hardly the discretion the situation called for.

'Off with you, both of you,' Madam Pomfrey shooed as she ground several colorful ingredients into a powder and added milk. 'She certainly needs nourishing and sleep, but other than that, she'll be all right.'

'Can we come up later to see her?' Ron asked quickly as the nurse continued waving them towards the exit.

'Yes, yes, but not too many of you and you'll have to be quiet. This girl needs to rest.' The nurse kept talking even as the boys retreated down the ward, now to herself. 'I don't know the last time I saw someone who so firmly refused to take care of themselves…' she stopped, and was grateful to hear the quiet _click_ of the closing latch that told her the boys had gone. She did, in fact, know one man who was worse even than Hermione Granger at taking care of himself. Another memory covered her thoughts of the other, acerbic patient, a memory of watching this woman's hands glow with a white-blue light when confronted with a dying Severus Snape, and the tremendous power she had displayed while healing him.

Setting aside mortar and pestle, the soupy paste now the right consistency, the mediwitch ran her wand down the girl's resting body once more. A cursory examination had told her that the boys were correct – she had no broken bones or damaged internal organs. But this diagnosis would tell her the nutritional needs of the too-white young witch. Other than iron, which was part of the pea-green liquid now sitting at her bedside, Hermione need beta carrotine, zinc, sodium-

-too much sodium. A whisper of foreboding surged through her and Poppy Pomfrey waved her waved over Hermione's midsection almost without thinking, and sat down heavily on her stool, hardly daring believe the evidence of her eyes, as a molten silver circle formed six inches from the linen covering the girl's belly, turning gently.

Madam Pomfrey had seen and done many strange things over the course of her lifetime, and working at a school for magical youth was a guarantee that one would witness and hear things that perhaps life would have been better without knowing. Every other year or so, a sixth or seventh year would come to her with this problem, and she dispensed medicine of all kinds, advice and a completely confidential ear to the young women who poured out their hopes, dreams, fears and furies in her office. She had delivered healthy, aborted and stillborn children in these beds.

And while she had seen this young woman for many maladies – almost all sustained in the war effort in one way or another since she had been thirteen years old - she had never expected to have Hermione Granger in one of them doing the delivering.

The gnawing in her abdomen had told her the two times she witnessed the extraordinary healing process that had pulled Severus Snape back from the edge of the veil that this student's connection with the saturnine spy for the Order of the Phoenix was no ordinary relationship of student and teacher. But many years of keeping her eyes open and her thought firmly tucked away had stilled her questions before they could reach her tongue, and in the flurry of many other ailments to cure, she had nearly forgotten the strange power that flowed between them. And she never would have guessed it to be the result of a binding, as this premature pregnancy would suggest…

Fighting an instinctive anger at Hogwarts' youngest professor, she strode to her office at the end of the ward. A pinch of Floo powder spun the Headmaster's Office into view, his long silver beard sweeping over his desk. She cleared her throat and said in a quiet, almost strangled voice, 'Albus? I think you ought to come to the hospital wing. Right now.'

The blue eyes lifted from his papers, locked on hers, and he nodded, quill hitting the desk as his long legs carried him through his oak door.

Bustling back to her student's side, she stirred her mixture once, then sat the young woman up and murmured, '_Ennervate.'_

Hermione stirred, opening her eyes slowly, wincing them shut again at the bright white light of the ward, and then snapping them wide, staring around at her surroundings. 'You collapsed in class, dear. Minerva thought that you should be getting some rest instead of straining yourself.' Pomfrey brought the bowl to Hermione's mouth. 'I suggest you drink this. You are suffering, in part, from lack of nutrition.' Hermione pursed her lips at the unappetizing mixture. 'This is not a request, Miss Granger,' the nurse said, and impatience crept into her voice. It was the tone she always used on Snape when he doubted her ministrations. 'I am not one of your well-meaning friends trying to force-feed you. I am a Mungo's-trained witch, and you _will_ drink this.'

Hermione blinked at her, earth-brown eyes growing larger yet, and took the bowl meekly in weak, but steady, hands, and started to drink.

'That's it, dear,' crooned the nurse, stroking Hermione's mussed hair as she drained the bowl. 'There are other things you're missing, and then a further regimen you will need for the child to be healthy-'

Hermione was barely aware of the bowl as it dropped to the edge of her pristine linen, teetered a moment, and smashed on the tile.

888

Snape straightened to rigidity in the chair behind his desk as the renewed onslaught from his bond-mate's mind seared through more than a dozen levels from the hospital wing to his office. Dimly, he was grateful that she had found out now, when he was sitting alone, than when he was in the classroom and would have to stifle his reaction to her fury and distress.

He had precious little time to contemplate the impact of her knowing and how she had found out – he thought he might have as much as another two weeks – when he heard his name being grated behind him.

'Severus Snape?'

A coil tightened in Snape's stomach, roiling, and it took considerable control not to fist his hands. Water and air, subdued since Hermione had quickened, flowed to his defense, running up his spine and along his arms to the tips of his fingers, leaving his body tingling in their wake.

'Headmaster,' Snape greeted the head in the fire as he turned round, his outer layer of calm belying his inner turmoil. And the knots in his gut grew heavier as he gazed at the older wizard's face.

For the second time in his life, the first being the night he confessed to his Death Eater activities and begged for death, Dumbledore's eyes held no compassion while looking at him. Not a mote of a twinkle. The sky-colored eyes stared at him, cold, hard, and with all the righteous fury of the greatest wizard of the age. And touching them now, as had never touched them before, was a disappointment so vast Snape felt he would drown in it.

This was the Dumbledore that was hated and feared by the Dark Lord and his followers. As he sat there, unable to look away from the man who had saved him and shackled him, Snape remembered why.

When Dumbledore spoke, his voice was neither warm nor cool, but flat, as if Snape had already struck him with his killing blow. 'Would you care to tell me, Severus, why our future Head Girl is lying in the hospital wing?'

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A/N: My computer is unfortunately broken, so I have no idea when anoher update will be coming. But chapter 2 is posted on ashwinder. under the same name, if you want to look! Thank you for reading!


	2. Orders Given

Disclaimer: Clearly, Harry Potter and all associated books, movies and paraphernalia do not belong to me. Many thanks to JKRowiling and others for their patience.

A/N: Re-writes! I've done it with at least three of these stories so far, and I have to beg forgiveness and indulgence for doing it to this one as well. I didn't like the previous version, so I fixed it. This is the vastly improved story for "Paradise Lost"!

Orders Given

_June, 1998 _

'Professor McGonagall.' Harry's voice was cool as he greeted his former Head of House, green eyes skimming over her. Minerva felt her heart contract briefly. Somewhere on his journey from school boy to powerful man, they had diverged, and the deep affection she had felt for the year-old orphan that Dumbledore had laid on the Dursleys doorstep had surrendered to a painful wariness of the boy's volatile temper and wild – if often correct – hunches, an attitude far more resembling Severus Snape's impatience than her previous indulgence.

'You have found the last of them?' She eyed the opaque door intensely, wishing to see through oak and wards to what lay within.

'We have,' he responded curtly. 'Has…has Granger figured out how to disarm them?' He stumbled over Hermione's last name, the sound unfamiliar on his tongue, roughened by disillusionment.

'Yes. Hermione and Severus believe they have,' Minerva replied, using their first names deliberately. She was watching the young wizard's face, and was not surprised to see the tightening of his jaw and the ice in his eyes when she casually dropped the name of her ex-colleague. She allowed disappointment to colour her voice when she next spoke.

'We could not be doing this without them,' she reminded him, her blue eyes piercing as she gazed at him. 'Remember that, Harry.'

The glance he levelled at her was harsh by virtue of its total impersonality, his emotions locked into place behind a mask that forcefully recalled the wizard he hated so.

'If traitors are our only means of victory, do we still win? We have agreed to disagree on this point, Professor.' he said, dipping his head in a semblance of courtesy before leaving her to stare at the warded door.

Minerva sighed as she listened to his footsteps retreating, climbing the stairs and pattering away into silence. Secrets. Her husband had been a master of them – both of keeping them and retaining unity in spite of them. Without his guiding hand, the Order had fallen into disarray. Harry's violent dislike and distrust of Snape had spread first to Hermione, then to his ex-professor and finally tainted everyone who had sided with her at Hermione's trial. _'We must stand united.' _Albus' dying wish.

One they were looking at failing to achieve.

Minerva's tartan robes moved tiredly as she swung around and followed Harry up the stairs. Part of her struggle was that she couldn't blame the members of the Order who whispered questions of Snape's loyalty. Would she believe her own story if Albus himself hadn't told her it was true?

~888~

_January, 1997 _

Hermione stared into the faces of her dearest friends as Ginny smoothed her hair, years of watching her mother blindly guiding the daughter's fingers to automatically soothe where they could.

'Feel better?' Ron's lopsided smile pinched the older Gryffindor witch's heart, and she experienced a fierce, furious wish that she had never broken up with him, that she had steadfastly ignored the intoxicating throbbing in her blood for a professor who now never even glanced in her direction…

'A little,' she lied, cutting short that line of thought before it could infuriate her yet again and bring fire whipping to the surface to hum in her veins. The elemental magic born of their bonding seemed to have largely gone into remission; on some days she barely noticed its existence anymore. It no longer thundered through her, a cascade of magic reacting to its other half, but any strong emotion brought it howling in her arteries, and it took _so_much effort to calm herself again.

'Professor McGonagall is going to be up later.' Ginny's hand had stopped running through Hermione's curls, and Hermione could hear the younger girl's hesitation at dropping in this piece of information.

'Why?' she asked, tensing. If Madam Pomfrey had told Professor McGonagall of her condition, what would her Head of House think? Hermione could practically _hear_the prim recrimination in the stern woman's voice.

'Because I talked to her.' Ginny's brown eyes met Hermione's. 'I told her we were worried, that you weren't eating or sleeping.' Her eyebrow quirked upwards. 'Lavender can hear you sometimes, screaming in your sleep.' _And crying._An irrational resentment seized Hermione at the thought of Lavender telling others about her nightmares, but she dismissed it. Truthfully, Hermione couldn't imagine that she wouldn't have done the very same if one of her roommates was having consistent nightmares.

'If Lavender isn't careful who she talks to, you'll have to share space with me on Rita Skeeter's "Disturbed and Dangerous" column,' she told Harry, trying to recover a sense of humour and mask her irritation. The medi-witch's revelation that morning still shocked Hermione, and she was trying to hold off thinking about the implications that spun from a pregnancy, especially one at this time, in her current position...and since the father was _that_man...

_At least I know now why this strange magic has become so easy to control._The bond was, after all, a procreative force. Flamma, Terra, Aqua and Ether had accomplished what they set out to do.

'Hermione? We all have Quidditch,' Harry was smiling apologetically as she re-focused on loss-tarnished green eyes, and he squeezed her hand. 'We'll be back up after practice.'

'All right,' she tried to return the smile, knowing that it twisted strangely on her mouth, and nodded, clamping down on her urge to beg them to remain, not to leave her to sort through the thickening swamp of thoughts and fears she so desperately did not want to confront.

'Sleep,' came Ginny's quiet advice. Ron's parting half-smile wrung her heart further as she watched them all tromp out. Lavender was luckier than she knew. Or perhaps, Hermione was simply stupider than anyone had ever guessed. She hadn't wanted to deceive Ron about her lukewarm feelings for him, but if she had perhaps focused a little more on him and a little less on the snide, Byronic prat who lived his life in a dungeon-

She angrily slammed her back against her pillows, the circular nature of her problem frustrating her further. Their souls were fused together. Even now, she didn't want Ron, simply the idea of what he represented: a real boyfriend, one who was gentle, funny, smart, passionate, protective and loving. Someone fate had denied her, binding her instead to a man who wanted absolutely nothing to do with her.

_I love you. 'If you thought I enjoyed sharing my bed with a Mudblood, you were sorely mistaken.' _They couldn't _both_be true...

The young witch felt hollowed out. The matched fury of their couplings had consumed her – skin and hair and mouths everywhere, their minds forever touching when their bodies had separated. A fulfilment so complete it was indeed a melding of two people. After such unity, she knew she could never expect to love another so fully. But at least then she would not hate them with a passion so strong it coursed through her like poison.

Hermione was drifting into a restless half-sleep when a hand wrinkled and softened with age brushed her forehead, and her eyes snapped open, meeting the deep-sea blue of her Head of House. Instead of the stiff disappointment the younger witch feared, McGonagall's voice was quieter and kinder than Hermione had ever heard as she asked, 'How do you feel?' Her concern was so blatantly genuine that Hermione nearly burst into tears. Instead, she controlled the impulse and replied blandly:

'I'm fine, Professor. Thank you for looking in on me.'

Dismissal and lies all in one breath. McGonagall frowned as she seated herself on a stool. The girl had acquired more of Severus than she thought. But the Head of House had seen the rainbow of emotions before the shutters had slammed behind her student's eyes, and she wasn't going to be tossed out so easily by this slip of a girl.

'Hermione.' The Gryffindor froze. She could not recall Professor McGonagall ever having called her by her first name. 'Hermione, listen to me.' McGonagall tucked an errant strand of hair back from the young woman's too-pale face, capturing her attention with the motherly gesture. 'The burden you carry is a heavy one,' her professor said slowly, 'and you should not carry it alone.' Lavender's words in their dormitory last night flitted through Hermione's mind, and she pursed her lips. Had Lavender and Ginny _together_called on Professor McGonagall?

Or did she know everything already? Hermione's eyes dropped to study her linens, trying to strangle a rush of embarrassment.

'Your friends are worried about you. And if you do not think they can help, there are others of us happy to keep your counsel. Myself,' she started. 'Viviane Vector would be delighted to guide you in _any_path. Aurora Sinistra. And, of course, Poppy.' Her nod down the ward indicated the nurse's office. 'Do not feel that you don't have support.'

Following this short speech, she favoured Hermione with a long look, as if expecting the younger witch to start confessing then and there. Hermione merely nodded and gave her a small, tight smile.

'Thank you, Professor,' she replied quietly, enforcing formality. It seemed that her Head of House did not know about her pregnancy. If Hermione had her way, she never would. 'But I will be fine. I think I've just been overworking myself.'

~888~

As Minerva McGonagall sat in the hospital wing with her withdrawn student, the Headmaster of Hogwarts stared at his Defence Against the Dark Arts professor across his large oak desk.

For the first time in their acquaintance, Albus Dumbledore had been rendered speechless. The thought gave the sallow, exhausted wizard seated across from him absolutely no pleasure. The blue eyes had gone from flat and cold to angry and contemptuous, to wondering, to amazement and were now hovering near understanding – a comprehension that he didn't want, and wished he didn't have, but after all, Dumbledore had been one of Severus Snape's primary instructors in warfare as well as life, and the man's actions, while unorthodox, reflected more of the headmaster's own calculations of risk and benefits than the older man liked.

'I think you had better tell her,' Dumbledore said after a long silence, his voice ragged.

'Absolutely not,' Snape snapped. 'She must know nothing – why do you suppose I have gone about this in precisely this manner?' He swallowed and averted his eyes, distress pulling at the corners as his voice grew hoarse. 'We...she...There is no fairytale ending,' he whispered. 'But there is an acceptable alternative. As long as she can be safe...'

He returned unforgiving eyes to his employer, regret submerged. 'Would you have me break her heart worse later, than have her hate me by the time I do what you have requested, as she will now? Would you have me risk her safety by giving her some false hope? Better for her to believe me no more than the heartless bastard I have made myself.'

Dumbledore gave him an even look, an incisive glance that made Snape desperately wish for an Invisibility Cloak. 'I think you should tell her _all_of it, Severus.'

'No,' the younger wizard whispered, horror and genuine fear threading his voice for the very first time. 'No… Headmaster…for the same reason you never wanted to inform Minerva, we cannot tell Hermione.'

~888~

'Harry?' Ron's voice suddenly broke the contemplative silence settled over the three teens as they trudged through the snow towards the castle, broomsticks slung over their shoulders, planning to skip returning to their dorms in favour of going up to the hospital wing, mud and all. 'Did you ever find out why Hermione went with McLaggen to Slughorn's party? She hasn't spoken to him once this term.'

Harry blinked. He had forgotten entirely, between mulling over Snape and Malfoy and then his constant worry for Hermione, to tell Ron and Ginny about Luna's baffling statement in Slughorn's smoke-clouded office, and that he had been unable to find both Hermione and Snape on the map that night when he had curled up in Gryffindor Tower. He hadn't even thought of the peculiar coincidence in his recent concern for his friend, and what had fascinated him six weeks ago now barely engaged his mind, seeming like child's play in the face of scrambling to understand Hermione's sudden despondency.

'Erm…not really, not McLaggen, no,' Harry fumbled. He hesitated. He had asked Hermione about her strange disappearance from Slughorn's party. She had given him an odd look when he had confessed to not seeing her on the Map, but brushed it away quickly, claiming to have used the Room of Requirement to escape her date. As to where Snape had vanished to, she hadn't known. In light of her spiralling depression, the raven-haired wizard found that he didn't particularly have a reason to even mention his snooping to the youngest Weasleys.

'Did you learn something else?' Ginny's voice intruded on his thoughts, a shrewd guess.

Harry opened his mouth to tell them about Luna and her outlandish observations, paused, and shook his head. 'Nothing more than Malfoy and Snape, like I told Ron.' Whatever troubled Hermione, Luna Lovegood's left-field theories were not what they needed to solve the problem.

'I think that Malfoy, Snape, and even McLaggen, are not the sources of Hermione's distress.' Ginny crystallized the thoughts of the trio with her slow words. 'The problem is something else. Something entirely different.'

'Which makes it worse, in a way,' Ron grimaced. 'If we don't know, how do we fix it?'

~888~

'Albus, I'm going to kill him!' Minerva McGonagall stormed past the heavy door as if it weighed nothing, the hefty wooden slab flying away from her rigid, outstretched fingers, startling her husband. He jumped and sent a silver ornament shaped like a spinning top flying off his desk to hum in circles as it vibrated over the floor, unnoticed by either professor. Though he could guess the subject of his wife's wrath – and was thankful the young man had left his office fifteen minutes prior and after much heated argument – he asked anyway.

'Who, my dear?' Dumbledore folded his hands over his newly-distributed papers. Minerva pinned him to his chair with a glower, pacing furiously in a manner far more reminiscent of their younger colleague than her usual poise.

'Severus, as you well know!' she snapped back, her tartan robes swishing over the rug behind her as she made another sharp turn near the window. 'Hermione Granger is currently lying in the hospital wing-'

'Poppy assures us she will make a recovery-' Her husband's blue eyes were just the right amount of wide innocence mixed with the proper dose of reassurance to fool most people. Unfortunately, his wife had had a great deal more access to his expressions over the years, and the look she turned on him now told Britain's most powerful wizard that his partner was certainly not in the mood for evasiveness. The Head of Gryffindor was intelligent and fiercely protective of all her House members. Even the deep support she had shown Severus since he had returned to Hogwarts as little more than a teen, begging for forgiveness or death, was stretched thin to the point of breaking given the state of the school's most brilliant student.

'Hang her recovery, and – if that's all you can say – hang you, Albus! Recovery? Bah! I have never set that girl a Transfiguration she couldn't do in one lesson since she accustomed herself to her power during her first month here at eleven years old. Now even Longbottom almost outstrips her. And it's not just my class. Filius says she's having enormous difficulty in Charms. Charms! When she got a hundred and twelve percent on her first final ever! Horace says her potions have rapidly dropped from being second-best to the worst he's seen in ages, and Viviane claims her Arithmancy work reflects none of the exemplary logic that, until Christmas, was her standard! "Recovery?" This is not some case of simple exhaustion and overwork. Something has happened to her, something severe, Albus, and it's sapping her magical strength and tremendous force of will. Severus _must_be behind it.'

Dumbledore waited until his wife had raged herself out and thrown herself into a chair on one side of his desk. Any of her students would have been shocked to witness such a display from their tight-lipped, strict and just Deputy Headmistress and Transfiguration professor. But _this_was the woman he had married, a combination of passionate caring, adoration of teaching and love for her charges, not the poker-backed authority figure who sat at his right hand at the head table. In many ways, his wife played a part just as Severus did. Just as he did.

A role he now had to perform for her.

At least Poppy had not told her the true nature of the problem, so that much was still under wraps.

'Merlin's Beard,' he heard her whisper from the armchair where she sat, and her spine seemed to lengthen as she sat straighter on the cushion. Dumbledore winced, powerless to stop her as he watched Minerva come to the correct conclusion right in front of him. 'Albus – did…tell me Severus didn't decide to satisfy the conditions of the bond?'

Dumbledore hesitated for a fraction of a second. Feigned ignorance would inflame her already-frayed temper further, and she was difficult enough to balance these days, as she was still putting none-too-subtle pressure on Severus to include her in the making of their plans. But telling her…what would she do to his spy? Or her student?

'Yes,' the old wizard replied tiredly, pushing his chair back from his desk, eardrums throbbing prematurely in expectation of her explosion. 'He did.'

She was on her feet and to the doorway in a flash. The over one-hundred-pound door slammed against the stone wall once more as she thrust it open without conscious effort. 'I'm going to kill him,' she repeated as she started down the stairs.

'Minerva,' her husband's voice stopped her in her tracks at the top step, and she twisted awkwardly, unwilling to reverse her forward motion. 'Minerva – you can't.'

Her eyes glittered diamond cold as she glared at him. 'Surely you don't approve?' The hoarseness of her whisper caught his breath in his throat, and he shook his head, unable to speak for a moment as overwhelming disappointment radiated from her.

'I do not. But he will explain himself to her. I have ordered it-'

A harsh, joyless laugh burst from her lips. 'Ordered? He has _crushed_her, Albus. Anyone who has taught her could see that through Darkness Powder. What good is an explanation that he offers only at your command?'

The sorrow in his eyes grew more pronounced. 'A great deal more than you might think, my love. Please trust me.'

Minerva cocked her head to one side, studying the lined, tired face she had known for so many years, a face that had become that of a gentle but impersonal stranger over the past months. She gave a tight nod. 'But when are you going to trust me, Albus?' she rejoined softly, and, without waiting for an answer, padded silently down the stairs, the soft movement of her feet a carryover from her tabby form.

Dumbledore's oak door closed automatically after a time, sealing him off from the darkness of the stairwell. Tears brimmed, unshed, in his eyelids and he sat back. It was beginning to spin out of his control. Severus' decision, while understandable and necessary, had added another, completely unforeseen factor to the equation, and the fights with his wife were getting worse as time continued to tick past. There were only a few months left – likely less than six – and he did not want to spend them arguing with her…

_'…for the same reason you never wanted to inform Minerva,' _Severus had said. The headmaster looked over to his phoenix as Fawkes readjusted himself on his perch, one liquid eye staring beadily at his master. 'Perhaps it is time to tell them both,' Dumbledore said to the flashy gold-and-crimson bird. Fawkes cocked his head, fine plumage ruffling before he dipped his wicked beak twice, as if agreeing with his keeper's decision.

~888~

Hermione waited until she heard the latching of the hospital wing door, the sound that signalled her solitude, then silently swung herself out of bed, one hand flattening on her belly nervously. No matter that she would not be capable of feeling anything of the life stirring within for months – she had found her fingers constantly returning to her abdomen, splayed to find some physical confirmation of her growing baby.

Mentally, she ran through her infuriating conclusion again. The combination of charms she had used to prevent conception were practically failsafe, with a better than ninety-nine percent guarantee of success. The information had been in a spate of books she had devoured in the library ages ago, perhaps as far back as her fourth year, when a clumsy, boyish redhead had been the object of her imaginings when she had thought about casting them…

Something, then, had interfered with the spells – she was quite sure that she had not cast them incorrectly.

But the magic recognized and harnessed by the ancient wizards of the Order of the An'guin Weyr was an old, raw power. Hermione bit her lip as she considered too late what she had not thought of before – the bond's purpose was procreation, and all of the vast magic that formed the binding would be working to that end. Some forms of magic had been demonstrated to be stronger than others, like the blood protection that bound Harry to his aunt via the sacrifice offered up by his mother. It seemed likely that the older, almost feral magic of their binding, blessed by elemental power, abrogated the laws of the newer, tamer, wand-driven art that witches now practiced.

Leaving her adrift and rudderless on a seemingly-endless sea. She had no plans to contend with her current condition. No knowledge that would help her smooth it over, or "fix" it.

At the age of six, Hermione had discovered her mother's day calendar spread on the kitchen table between a pile of messages jotted down by their secretary and her father's rapidly-cooling coffee. Transfixed, she had painstakingly read aloud the map of Jane Granger's day, and eagerly turned the page to find more – tomorrow, and the day after, and the week after...

The tiny witch had taken pen to paper, her tongue trapped between her teeth as she unhesitatingly imitated the hours and dates from the large, leather-bound book in shaky handwriting.

From that moment to this, Hermione Granger had never lacked for a plan.

Now she stood without one, and more than her life hinged on the decisions she would make.

A child. Her education. Harry Potter. Some of these things were mutually exclusive. What would she do with a helpless dependent? What _could_she do? A war zone was no place to raise a baby...

'Miss Granger, dear?' She realized that she had stopped in the middle of the ward, her original errand totally forgotten, and allowed the concerned matron to steer her gently back between soft linens and pour her another dose of the nutrient mixture that the witch and her developing foetus needed. As the Calming Draught she had liberally added took effect and her patient's eyelids fluttered to be half-closed, Madam Pomfrey rocked back in her chair, allowing worry to permeate her hazel eyes.

She folded her hands in her lap as she considered the face of the wraith-like, almost-white sixth-year framed by a riot of lustreless curls. The news of her pregnancy had clearly come as a great shock to Hermione. The widening of her eyes, the way her fingers had opened, as if suddenly nerveless, allowing the potion to shatter on the floor had betrayed the young woman's complete surprise. The paleness of her complexion, heightened by the deep smudges under her eyes, left no doubt as to her poor state of health. Never a big girl, the nurse estimated she was down at least fifteen pounds from before the holidays, and the chances of her child's survival were not as high as they should be. The medi-witch pursed her lips. In her current state, there was little conceivability that Hermione Granger could successfully carry a baby to term, should she want to...

...and the father? As a professional, it was her duty to ensure that both parents at least discussed it, so that each voice might be heard. She had seen more than one fight between couples in this hospital, boys who were uninterested or too interested in their offspring making demands of their partners...

But though she had her suspicions, the girl would have to reveal the paternity for such rights to be granted.

~888~

The curtains were pulled tightly about her, the only occupied bed in the ward glowing with a beacon's brightness from winter's refracted moonlight. A glance towards the dark nurse's office at the far end told him that Madam Pomfrey was sleeping, but Snape closed the door silently and flicked his wand to soundlessly cast _Muffliato_before padding towards the bed that held his bondmate. The matron was a notoriously light sleeper, and to have her awaken to see him creeping through the hospital like a love-sick teenager would cause more trouble than he cared to handle.

Sliding a hand between the slit in the white privacy screen, the professor eased himself to Hermione's bedside a breath at a time, wishing he could hurry, not daring to wake her. Every pregnancy reacted differently to the many available potions, which made it unlikely that she had been dosed with anything stronger than a Calming Draught – and wouldn't be until Poppy was satisfied that her body could handle them.

As the sheet finally slipped over his left shoulder to enclose him completely inside the screen, Snape allowed his hungry eyes to devour his bondmate for the first time in four weeks.

He heard the hoarse gasp tear from his throat, ribs pressing painfully against his lungs. Where was the vibrant woman he had left in the Room of Requirement, the lively face that had burst so eagerly into his office?

_'Better for her to believe me no more than the heartless bastard I have made myself.'_The words he had spoken a bare handful of hours earlier rang empty as he gazed at the evidence of his handiwork. She looked little better than the Inferi causing such a panic up and down the country. Sickness boiled in him. So white. It was too easy to believe that the cinnamon eyes would open lifeless in her ashen face.

_I wished to spare you. To preserve some small part of who you had been. Not to chain you to the burden you will now wear. But it is too late._

A rickety inhale finally came, followed by another, and a third. In through his nose, out through his mouth...the water pricking his eyes had to be kept at bay.

_'You_ must _speak to the girl, Severus. This is not a request.'_Dumbledore's order had been clear.

A long finger reached out to gently spiral around a lock of hair stretched carelessly across the pillow, savouring the texture – neither coarse nor fine, but simply hers – and resisting the urge to bury both hands in the mane.

A reluctant moment later, he bent to brush his mouth across her forehead, retreating as she turned towards his lips in her sleep.

~888~

Hermione awoke quite suddenly in the morning, her bladder letting her know in no uncertain terms that staying in bed was _not_an option. She quickly made her way to the loo, frowning. A strange pall had settled on her overnight. Sorrow of a different shade than her own endless well of depression seeped through her, and her dreams had included the presence of another, a dark figure protecting her from a vast ocean of pain...

She exited the bathroom to see Madam Pomfrey standing next to her rumpled bed sheets, nutrient concoction in hand. 'I was wondering if your dear friends had persuaded you to run off with them,' the matron said with a faint smile as she pressed the cup into Hermione's hands. The Gryffindor's mouth twitched. The nurse had never been very appreciative of their abrupt departures from her care.

As she drank, she was aware of the humming magic skating across her body, diagnostic spells and check-up routines flowing in long streams of colour before the medi-witch, analysed and erased before Hermione could ask what each meant.

By the time she had swallowed the last of the largely tasteless, mushy potion, Madam Pomfrey was nodding to herself.

'In truth, Miss Granger, I can't see why you should remain here,' she announced briskly. 'I require you to take bed rest today, and recommend it through the weekend. You also must start eating all three meals, and these-' a wave of her wand brought seven medium-sized vials to clink on Hermione's bed, '-taken every morning with breakfast should restore the correct balance to your blood and ensure that your child is getting what he or she needs from your body.'

'I...thank you,' Hermione stammered.

'You are, of course, welcome to stay if you think that you will rest easier in the ward. I will be glad to restrict all visitors if you need some time to come to terms with what has happened.' She gave the girl a compassionate look as she added slowly, 'And I strongly recommend speaking to the father.'

Hermione's hand fisted around her white linens, nails biting her palm at this suggestion and the little colour in her cheeks drained instantly.

'You needn't tell me who it is,' the older woman hastily tried to reassure her. But the student's hunched shoulders did not relax.

'I...the father...' her voice roughened, and Hermione cleared it ruthlessly, forcing the painful truth past her lips. 'The father will not want it.'

'Miss Granger – you only just found out yourself...can you be so certain?' Madam Pomfrey protested.

A flash of something ice-cold flared in the young woman's eyes, and the matron's heart twisted in empathy. There was no doubt as to the hatred there – or to the inferno that kept it going.

'I am absolutely sure.'

'Well...that is between you and him,' the nurse said, striving to maintain her neutrality. She gestured to a stack of books and glossy leaflets on the side table that Hermione hadn't noticed.

'These are for you,' she told the girl. 'Diet, nutrition and exercise for the healthiest pregnancy possible. A selection of books on child-rearing.' Her hand deftly plucked a blue-and-white pamphlet from the jumble threatening to hurtle over the edge of the table. 'This one is from an adoption agency.' She saw the startled jerk in Hermione's hand, the small fingers reaching to take it automatically yanking back, as if burned.

'I am not trying to hint at anything, but you have an incredibly important decision in front of you – one that needs to be made with some speed. You are a little more than six weeks along, so you have time for your usual, thorough research, but it must be a top priority. Adoption is one of your options, as, of course, is keeping your child. Both present you with problems to be carefully considered.' She took a deep breath and pulled a small flipbook from the chaos.

'Abortion is your third possibility, though I urge you to think very strongly before embracing it. You have already begun to bond to the child, and the longer you wait, the more difficult it will become. The method is physically much easier in the wizarding world than I understand it to be in the Muggle one, but nothing eases the pain of loss.'

Hermione nodded reluctantly, taking the red booklet from the matron and replacing it with the stack on the table, mentally filing it under the "Last-to-be-Read" column in her mind. Over the summer, she had grown increasingly aware of the Muggle world's obsession with this subject, and had never quite understood why something so intensively private had been made the object of public speculation.

But she had never imagined herself having one, and automatically shied from the prospect.

The nurse handed the Gryffindor her school robes, gently stroking the girl's hair as Hermione stared with wide eyes at the books facing her, feeling only slightly less lost than she had the day before. 'My door stands open to you at any time of day or night. No question is too trivial, no ache too insubstantial. I have no issue with helping you get what you desire, young woman. And I very much want you to be sure what that is.'

~888~

Snape's black eyes lifted from where his head bent to grade papers, covertly watching his class. Since Longbottom's near-fatal accident during first term, the sixth years had been diligent workers, seldom upsetting desks or even each other as they concentrated on their silent technique. The professor narrowed his eyes as he watched James Potter's son flick his wand to no avail, green eyes focussed as if his intense gaze alone would bring results. Snape sighed. In spite of his hard words regarding Potter's acumen in his classes, he knew the boy excelled in Defence – another irony, considering the other similarities between the boy and himself, pieces of a puzzle he had no desire to piece together but was too intelligent to ignore.

He had rounded a corner last term to come upon a sight that would alter his view of the Boy-Who-Lived for the rest of his life. Standing in the torchlight, silent and brooding and without his constant companions, Harry's slightly rumpled black robes, hunched shoulders and lengthening hair falling carelessly over his scar had reminded the professor sharply of himself as a youth. For the first time, the boy had truly been someone other than the son of his nemesis and the current bane of his existence. Snape had left him alone in an uncharacteristic display of restraint. It was twenty minutes outside curfew, worthy of at least thirty points and a detention, but he had silently switched direction, an odd compulsion not to disturb the unlikely hero directing his footsteps.

But Potter's talent for Defence was not bleeding into his class work now. Snape's deliberate, long-standing attention to wordless duelling this year was solely for the benefit of the Chosen One and his friends. Whether anyone else in the class ever learned how was irrelevant, if only the three were capable-

Without thinking, his black gaze sought and settled on Hermione. A quick trip on Friday evening, ostensibly to check on the medicinal stock, had revealed the hospital utterly empty, and he had been forced to catch a meagre glimpse of her in the Great Hall. Her brief sojourn under the fussy medi-witch's care had taken the edge off her pallid complexion. A tinge of colour stroked her otherwise fairie-pale features, and she looked well-rested for the first time since that singularly unpleasant evening in his office.

And fire had returned to her large, brown eyes. The huge orbs had latched onto him as she had entered the class room, and he could not only see, but feel the fury that ignited, catching his breath as he prepared to call the room to order. Her knowledge of the child within had changed her. The spirit he was terrified of having broken flashed strongly, gold-and-orange flickers of light sprinting through her irises.

_'You_ must_ speak to the girl, Severus. This is not a request.'_As he considered the young woman in front of him, her hair plaited, her robes loose with weight loss, Snape tapped his fingers on the essay he had been grading, crimson-inked vitriol masquerading as comments forgotten in favour of wondering how to make her listen. For he could sense, through her fledgling Occlumency skills, that she would never accede to a request coming from him.

_On the other hand, she has always obeyed orders,_ he thought grimly. Would she dare to defy him if he _commanded_her to speak to him? This new Hermione, hard and fragile at the same time, like a porcelain doll, might simply walk away.

He tensed as her copper-headed partner's wand flicked and a bit of light jetted from the end, then relaxed as the weak attempt dissipated against the bubble of her shield. The class was continuing to practice the Repulsor Hex. Worry for the life Hermione hadn't known existed at the time had almost compelled him to remove her from the class at the beginning of the month. But they practiced mostly Defence that did not require partners, and when they did, the two boys who claimed her were so gentle, and her Shield Charm so strong, that she was safe. And it would have taken entirely too much explanation to have her removed from his class on a permanent basis, even with his strange (and still unexplained to the student body) banishment of her for a week and a half during the fall term.

Lest any of his students track the direction of his intense gaze, always a risk with older Slytherin students seeking the advantages of constantly-shifting power, Snape swiftly flickered his eyes over the rest of the room. His mouth twisted in an expression of concerned displeasure as his attention landed on the platinum blond head of Lucius Malfoy's son. He did not particularly like the boy, but there was no denying that the task Malfoy refused to share with the former Potions master was draining the young man, more steadily and dangerously than Granger's heartbreak had depleted her.

In truth, it was difficult to tell which one looked more sickly these days, his blond grey-eyed serpent or Minerva's wild-maned lioness. Snape's complimentary words, directed towards Slytherin's one-time favoured prince at the beginning of class, had seemed to wash over and through the boy without penetrating, and worry for another of his students had peaked. He suppressed a sigh, irony ringing in his thoughts. The Dark Lord's Rising had imposed a brutal seriousness on a soft world governed by House points, Quidditch matches and OWLs.

He watched Hermione move delicately, Shield Charm firmly in place as Ron Weasley half-heartedly attempted to Repulse her. The spell rebounded, and the red-head ducked, mouth twitching to smile as the spell dissipated against a stone wall. A younger Ron Weasley would have exulted in beating his best friend, always top of her class, but it seemed the youngest son in a long line had finally begun growing up. He might never match his friend's intelligence, but the intense loyalty that had so annoyed Snape when Weasley had followed his two friends into trouble without thought was smoothing into a fierce protectiveness that would well serve the Order, and guarded Granger better than she knew. Snape had been startled to notice this term – his world no longer narrowed to controlling his feelings for Granger and at the same time keeping the Dark Lord satisfied – that, like Draco Malfoy, Ronald Weasley was joining the ranks of teens merging into adulthood. The boy had displayed oddly adult emotions this term, making decisions that contradicted his attitudes from his childhood, establishing himself as separate from the generation that raised him.

Lost in his thoughts as he re-assessed the young minds which he had for so long dismissed as nuisances to be kept safe from their own disastrous desires and egos, Snape barely registered that class had finished. Only the rustle of bags slinging onto backs recalled him, and he spoke, knowing that the headmaster would not tolerate a delay.

_'You _must _speak to the girl…' _

'Miss Granger, my desk,' he ordered over the din. He felt a shaft of surprise, followed by a swift flow of fear and loathing before she choked off their connection with Occlumency.

He did not return to grading papers as he waited, knowing that the discourtesy of making her wait would inflame her further, and that he needed to court her good will. Instead, he made a show of looking over the exiting class, his acidic tongue kept in check by sheer nervousness. A simple apology would never suffice. What could he say to her?

His black eyes had settled once again on her, and his glare sharpened, taking in her two bodyguards. Potter and Weasley stood solidly behind her, both of them dwarfing the witch and causing Snape to wonder briefly, irrelevantly, when the two had grown to be six feet and higher.

'I do not believe your cohorts need to be here, Miss Granger. When I ask for one of you, I do not expect the whole team.'

Harry felt Hermione stiffen, and placed one palm flat against her back, transmuting silent support though his wind-roughened fingers. Hermione had declined to tell them anything more once she had been dismissed from the hospital wing, and a circumspect visit to Professor McGonagall by Ginny and Harry had yielded no further results. But the stay in the ward had at least changed Hermione's eating and sleeping habits, even if her magic remained weakened and spotty. For now, that she had improved was good enough. But if Snape decided to start heckling her again…now that she was just beginning to look better…

Snape felt her measuring him as she thought through his command, her large brown eyes shot through with gold and orange from flame. Hermione felt the urge to purposefully defy him, to force him to speak to her in front of the boys, but reason quenched revenge. His work for the Order was too valuable to risk exposing an ex-lover's quarrel to Ron and Harry. 'Wait for me,' she ordered them gently, hands extending to touch each arm. They tilted their heads in acknowledgement, and eyes of jade and sea glowered at him evenly before they departed.

Silence. Then, 'What is it you require of me, Professor?' Her voice was neutral, but her eyes glittered, and he could not allow himself to react to the mingled pain and anger that flared there.

'I would – the headmaster wishes for me to speak to you. You will come to my office at eight.'

'No, sir,' she replied. Snape felt his stomach writhe at the sheer weight of brittle ice in her voice. 'I will not. If the headmaster wishes to speak to me, I will await his owl.'

She spun to follow her friends through the door. She did not dare to look at the thin face of her professor, which was twisted both with fury and vulnerability, as she stalked out.

~888~

'How was she after her day back in class?' Albus Dumbledore sat ensconced in a plush chair in Madam Pomfrey's office shortly after the nurse had finished an inspection of her precocious patient, pronounced her fit, and sent her to the Great Hall for dinner, accompanied by no fewer than five other students.

'She was all right. I have given her some supplemental potions to take with meals, assuming, of course, that she _does_still eat them?' The look she pinned Dumbledore with was one eerily like his own x-ray gaze, and he shifted uncomfortably.

'She did attend all three meals today,' he allowed.

'She must go to all of them _everyday_, Headmaster, at least as long as she is so deficient in practically every vitamin and mineral that she requires to keep herself and the child healthy!' The vehemence in Madam Pomfrey's voice surprised him, and Dumbledore nodded his agreement.

'Relax, Poppy. I have every intention of ensuring that Miss Granger takes care of herself. And I think you will find that most of her friends do as well – even though I am quite certain that none of them are aware of the reason.'

The nurse nodded shortly, and sipped her tea. Dumbledore recognized a question lurking in the medi-witch's dark grey eyes and waited for a long moment before prompting her. 'What is it, Poppy?'

Madam Pomfrey took a deep breath and put aside her tea, her frank eyes once again meeting his, total candour shining there.

'The father. It's Severus, isn't it?'

His surprised hesitation betrayed him, and the nurse's lips thinned, eyes flashing with rampant disapproval. 'I see.'

'I doubt it,' Dumbledore sighed, a weary hand stroking his beard.

'Then a little illumination on the subject would be gratifying,' came her tart reply. 'This...license is unlike you, Albus. A professor carrying on so with one of his students? Why has he not been exposed to the Wizengamot? Why has she not been expelled?'

'Poppy – think!' Dumbledore commanded, and though he said it quietly, she saw deep disappointment in his eyes. 'Of course it seems like an open-and-shut case. Hogwarts' by-laws have made no exceptions for this kind of behaviour since being instituted two-hundred years ago. Were it anyone else, the governors would have received word long before a pregnancy could expose them, and the offending couple removed.'

He sat back in his seat, his frown cutting his forehead. 'But it is not "anyone else." Severus Snape must remain at Hogwarts – you know better than most what he endures to keep the Order informed – a task more important than any young woman's heart or innocence, as much as it pains me to say it. Hermione, likewise, has to stand by Harry Potter. Her intelligence has served him well and he will need her in times to come.

'But even those reasons aside...they are Bound, Poppy. Unconsciously and irremovably. They no more desire these circumstances than you or I. It has placed both of them in worse danger than they already were, and added an impossible variable to their world. Should I punish them for something they have not purposefully created and, in fact, struggled against until the alternative to succumbing was insanity?'

The medi-witch sat very still. Bound. She had suspected something similar months ago...but never a connection of such power...

'I'm sorry,' she finally whispered. 'For what I have been thinking of him. And her. And you.'

'No apologies are necessary. I believe that I might have reacted the same way to such unsettling news.'

'Will their connection cause any differences in her condition?' Pomfrey asked after a moment, trying to re-negotiate common ground. 'Unforeseen difficulties?'

'Your guess is much better than mine, I'm sure,' the headmaster answered. 'I have only a hazy idea of pregnancy and birth under normal circumstances – and to my knowledge, you are the first to observe this decidedly phenomenal event in almost a millennium. I suspect at least many of the basics will remain the same – a child is a child, surely, regardless of the manner of its conception.'

'Indeed. In that case...' another pause, and then the witch forged ahead, the memory of overwhelming pain warping Hermione's mouth spurring her forward, 'In that case I have just one more question.'

A flutter of his good hand indicated that she should continue.

'Hermione Granger is convinced that Severus does not want this child. Nor did I see him come to visit her while she was here. What are his intentions towards his baby and the mother?'

'To keep them safe,' Dumbledore answered honestly. 'He is...taking steps...now to repair what he has nearly destroyed. I believe Hermione's fears will prove to be unfounded.'

'I would advise him to make his move soon. Her loyalty and sense of forgiveness are extremely well developed, but if he pushes her too far for too long, her need for justice will place her beyond his reach. He is very nearly there already.'

'He will be speaking to her within the next few days at the latest,' Dumbledore assured her, rising. 'Hermione Granger is a remarkable young woman. I don't think she's written him off completely.'

A quick search of the kindly, but neutral features told the nurse that she would have to be content with such vague reassurances. She dipped her head. 'I hope you are right.'


	3. Catalysts

Disclaimer: Clearly, Harry Potter and all associated books, movies and paraphernalia do not belong to me. Many thanks to JKRowiling and others for their patience.

Catalysts

_June, 1998_

A knock at her bedroom door in Grimmauld Place brought Hermione halfway out of her chair before the handle turned and her former Transfiguration professor entered.

'Minerva,' she greeted the older woman with a tired, but eager, smile, the impatience a rare reminder of her true age. 'They brought it? And they're all right?'

'They did and they are,' Minerva confirmed quietly. 'The last Horcrux, though Potter has the room warded so heavily now that we have them all that none but he and Mr. Weasley can enter.' Her voice held a hesitant note buried within her obvious irritation, and Hermione sighed as her mentor dropped into the rocking chair, starting the soothing motion automatically.

'We're still pretty short on trust, aren't we?' she asked quietly.

'Potter wouldn't let me in,' Minerva replied, pulling bobby pins out of her hair, hat already discarded to the floor next to her seat, her long, grey-and-black tresses tumbling down in individual curls over her tartan robes. 'He is ill inclined to forgive you, Hermione, and to trust Severus. Or anyone who might have even the slightest leanings in your direction. He-' her mouth twisted as she heard again the young man's stumble over pronouncing Granger's last name, a habit the younger wizard had acquired from Mad-Eye Moody when he was particularly displeased with someone. But Hermione was too close to Potter's heart for him to push her out of it for spite alone, and although his words were harsh and tone flat when he spoke of or to her, Minerva could see the pain in his green eyes when he looked at his former best friend.

'He...?' Hermione picked up the dangling pronoun.

'He is insistent on his right to be pig-headed, even to the point of childishness. I reminded him that we could not do this without you. Without Severus. He replied that we had agreed to disagree on this point.' She left out the part about traitors. Her protégé had sacrificed enough without adding to her torment.

Hermione's sigh caught in her chest, pain so deep it physically twisted in her, trapping the air within. A year ago, when they had begun the hunt for the Horcruxes in the wake of Dumbledore's death, they had been a united whole, four determined young witches and wizards carrying the hope of the wizarding world in their wands and their minds. But the whole had been destroyed, and fragmentary parts were all that remained, a chasm separating her from the boy who had come to her rescue in a third-floor bathroom and stupidly jumped on the back of a mountain troll, sticking his wand up the beast's nose to save her life. What had been broken could not be restored, the trust on both sides seemed breached beyond repair. Their stumbling attempts at bridging the gap over the past month had continued to fail, tempers flaring swiftly as awkwardness replaced ease, and uncertainty, warmth. And as they set their stage for what they were planning to be the final battle with Voldemort, Harry had withdrawn from her once again, even shoving Ron aside when the third member of their childhood triad defended her.

Hermione rose, pacing, as her staunchest ally shook out her hair, massaging where the pins pressed against her scalp. The teenaged witch cursed herself, the stubbornness of her friend, her absent-by-necessity bondmate, knowing that if Harry did not come around, there could be no battle, and the age-marked face of Albus Dumbledore swam into her vision, accompanied by his steady, melodic voice. '_Your difficulties with one another must be resolved, for our defence must stand united, or fall...'_ He had not been speaking to her about Harry at the time, but the aptness of the phrase resounded in her mind as she spoke.

'Without his sincere trust we cannot undo the wards around the Horcruxes. He has to believe in me, we must be united...or we cannot destroy them.'

The older woman dropped her hands from her head, her wand waving a full teacup into existence before her face. She sipped the steaming liquid slowly as she gazed at her unexpected charge.

'I know.'

~888~

_February, 1997_

As Hermione started up the staircase towards the hospital wing instead of following Ginny and Luna into the Great Hall for tea, she heard the twin thudding of large feet behind her that told her Harry and Ron had noticed her change of course, and altered theirs accordingly – asking no questions, content to shadow her. The witch restrained a sigh.

Learning she was pregnant had shocked the young woman out of her depression as she had instantly devoured not only every book in the library's limited selection on pregnancy, birth and early childhood, but also the thick rolls of parchment Madam Pomfrey had given her on one of her other options: adoption. She still shrank from the abortion materials shoved to one side of her trunk, not having made it past the first two paragraphs.

'_Life in all its forms is precious,'_ she could hear her mother's sorrow-laden voice on the day they had decided to put their ill and ancient dog down. _'To take life, one must be very, _very_ certain that it is the only way.'_

But the question remained, expanding to fill most of her brain as she committed to memory recommendations for vaccinations, eating habits and exercises for mothers with their new-borns: what would she do with a baby in the Order of the Phoenix? Duty bound her to her best friend until the end of the war. And she could not imagine for an instant telling her parents. She had always found them fair and loving...but she knew both would take a dim view of her condition...especially since telling them the truth behind it was completely out of the question. And if the Death Eaters were to decide that her child, like herself, had to go...

What if abortion _was_ the only way?

Now in urgent need of privacy to consider her options, she had become sharply aware of the constant surveillance she had been under for the past month. She was never alone, except when she was in the dormitory bathroom. As her consciousness once again looked outward instead of being consumed inwardly, she had felt Lavender's eyes on her in their bedroom. She noticed Ginny, Luna and Neville observing her during meals, and Harry and Ron were on her heels from the instant she set foot in the common room in the morning to the moment she ascended the staircase under the gaze of Ron's girlfriend.

Though genuinely touched and amazed by the solicitous attentions of her fellow Gryffindors and Luna and the changes in her two closest friends that reflected their growing maturity – six months ago Harry and Ron would never have willingly put their lives aside for weeks at a time solely to pay her mind – Hermione had swiftly tired of her inability to move about the castle without a cadre of concerned friends. And her exacerbation was increasing as she was reduced to guilty, hastily snatched moments of reading Madam Pomfrey's thick stack of parchments by candlelight behind her firmly-closed curtains.

She turned on the stairs, taking in the two forms no more than three steps below her, exasperation and intense gratitude rolled together at their questioning look, Harry's hand already out to steady her if she was coming back down the stairs. Hermione had finally noted, too, that touch had become a much more common part of their exchange, the awkwardness that had permeated Ron just the previous spring vanishing with their too-rapid aging, maturity bringing an end to the endless games of status and attraction that consume teenagers.

'I'm not made of glass, Harry,' she said gently. 'I won't break.' Her friend blinked, glanced at the hand that had risen out of habit, and dropped it back to his side sheepishly.

'Sorry,' he said with a faint smile. 'I know.'

'Are you all right? Why are we going to the ward?' Ron asked, blue eyes glittering with worry.

'_We _are not. I am. Alone,' she said firmly. The boys swapped looks, and the automatic way they turned to one another betrayed how often it was done. 'I'm fine, Ron, Harry,' she said, offering them a tired smile. 'I just need some potions from Madam Pomfrey to help with my nutrition.'

Two pairs of shoulders visibly relaxed, their unvoiced concern assuaged, and for a moment, affection swelled her heart to bursting at the care these two boys were taking with her, like a precious object to be handled with the greatest love. She stepped down to meet them, still shorter than both of them as she stood on the step above them, sliding one of her smaller hands into each of their larger ones. 'I really am all right.' She was dimly impressed with the steadiness of her voice as she lied. She had always been a poor inventor of stories in situations where it was necessary. But she had improved with the ironclad need to keep her secret, and though she felt that all she wanted to do was collapse in her mother's arms and cry, for her loss and her lack of guidance, she could see belief in Ron and Harry's faces.

'I'll catch you up at tea in a few minutes,' she said quietly, and though her tone was gentle, both boys heard the firmness there, and knew that she was not going to let them come with her. A moment's hesitation, and then Ron nodded and smiled his easy smile, his decision made.

'Sure.' His hand on Harry's arm signalled their second, more reluctant friend, and copper and raven heads descended the stairs rapidly, vanishing through the doors that were thrown open to allow late afternoon sunlight to stream over the stone. Content that she would be able to speak with the medi-witch about her condition alone, Hermione hurried up towards a place she had spent far too much time in during her years at Hogwarts: the hospital wing.

'Madam Pomfrey?' She was surprised by the steadiness of her voice as she called for the matron. The nurse came hurrying out of her office at the far end of the ward.

'Miss Granger! What can I do for you? Sit down, dear,' she added, waving to a bed and snapping her fingers to bring a half dozen instruments to float alongside her in mid-air. 'Are you feeling all right? The headmaster tells me you've been eating and taking those vitamins I gave you.' Her wand was already waving, the smoky forms of diagnostic spells coalescing and dissolving in front of the young woman in a series of answers to different, unspoken queries, magic coming from the older woman's wand faster than speech could carry it. The greying witch nodded with satisfaction at the boost in her patient's digestive tract before turning to study Hermione's immune system.

'Much improved, much improved,' she murmured to herself. Her basic concerns assuaged, she asked, 'What else do you need? Different food? We can put in a word to the house-elves, if you would like. Do you want more rest? Given your condition and your excellent class work, a few words to Albus would allow you to drop some classes if you wish, or merely delay them a year, since the baby is due next September.'

'No, thank you,' Hermione said, slightly flustered by the barrage. 'I mean – about classes, I already know I'll have to drop some of them if I carry the baby to term...'

She stopped, her 'if' twisting in the air, took a deep breath and continued. 'I've been thinking...with duties to the Order and to Harry, I don't know if I can...can raise a child in such an environment.' A suffocating pain threatened her words, and she could hear unshed tears in her voice as she forced herself to speak. 'I was wondering...could you tell me something about abortion?'

The medi-witch sighed, Summoning a chair to sit in as she squarely faced her patient. 'Have you read what I gave you?'

Hermione shook her head, unable to smile at the irony of answering this question in the negative. 'I can't read about this. It's so...precise. So clinical. There's no intimation of feelings – of what the mother can expect to feel,' she swallowed, 'or the baby...'

'Not much is known about foetuses at this stage,' the nurse warned her quietly. 'I cannot tell you what it would "feel" if you chose to abort. But you have a point about the material. It is rather dry, isn't it?' She cleared her throat and shifted slightly in her chair.

'There is a series of potions – twelve in all, administered over twenty days – that will shed the foetus with very little pain or inconvenience to you as the mother. Naturally, you will bleed, but it will be like a rather heavy period. Unlike Muggle doctors, there is no need for any kind of invasive procedure.' She smiled sympathetically as Hermione winced. 'I say this not to be callous but because it is true, Miss Granger. But as for the emotional side...'

She took a deep breath. 'I do not know a single woman who has not regretted, at one stage or another, making this decision. For some it is fleeting, lasting no more than a few days or a week. For some it lasts some months. A very few end up believing they made the wrong choice – and it haunts them the rest of their lives. Likewise, I have known women who immediately break down, those who seem fine for some weeks or days, and those who fall apart much later – on what would have been the child's first birthday, for instance. But I have never heard of anyone who has chosen to abort and been unaffected. Make no mistake, my dear. The child is part of you – and you already know that. If not your waking mind, certainly the heart and body preparing itself for the baby.

'You make a very good point about your duties to the Order, but consider – you also have many allies, many options when it comes to raising your child. If you truly believe you cannot care for it yourself, think of the people who might. The obvious choice is your parents – though I do not know them. Another who springs to mind is Molly Weasley.'

'Also an Order member,' Hermione countered.

'Yes, but one who tends to be a homemaker instead of a warrior. The role she plays in our resistance is much better situated to child care.'

'But in essence, the problem is the same,' the young witch said, frustration bleeding into her voice. 'I dare not give this child to Muggles – even _if _my parents would agree to take care of a child conceived in my sixth year at school.' The bitter self-mockery in her tone caused the medi-witch to close her eyes. The prefect should be too innocent to feel such fury, especially directed inwards. 'Nor could I ask Molly or any other Order member. The baby would _still_ be in the middle of the war – my parents could never protect it should Voldemort's cronies come crawling, and the rest of the Order are in the same danger I am.'

'I doubt it,' the nurse answered. 'The rest of the Order doesn't go charging off with Harry Potter every time he sees a red flag. But,' she continued swiftly, cutting off whatever argument the Gryffindor was preparing to make, 'I understand what you mean. You _did_ read about adoption, I assume?'

Hermione nodded, frowning. 'I got the very distinct impression that it's not a common thing to do.'

'In wizarding society, it isn't. But that doesn't mean it can't be done.' Madam Pomfrey levelled the young woman a serious look. 'However, I will stress again that I strongly recommend speaking to the father.'

Hermione's jaw locked at this repeated suggestion, but the medi-witch was as tenacious as any of her friends. 'You are certain he does not want the child – but perhaps his parents or family friends could offer a more palatable solution than yours or members of the Order. Or,' she leaned forward to capture one delicate hand, squeezing it lightly, 'you might be pleasantly surprised to find that you're wrong – that he's very invested in the well-being of his offspring. Fatherhood changes men, Miss Granger. Sometimes in utterly unexpected ways. I urge you to give both him and yourself the chance to find out.'

~888~

Ron glanced sidelong at his younger sister as they meandered around the lake, snow crunching under their boots. Her brown eyes were simultaneously cheerful and burdened – the flashing red of a robin taking wing bringing a smile to her lips, the tangle of clouds overhead causing it to fade.

The youngest two of seven, barely sixteen months apart in age, their natural affection had blossomed from an early age. Far from Harry's worries that dating his sister would infuriate his best friend, Ron had been delighted to see them walking hand-in-hand around the Burrow's barely-tamed garden that summer, and anxious when his sister had come to him with tear-swollen eyes to tell him that it was over. The Keeper was pleased with his best friend's constant and renewed affections, and the lift it had wrought in Ginny's moods. But it did mean that their long sibling talks, once so common, had become an increasing rarity.

'You and Harry doing okay?' he finally asked.

Ginny hissed a long sigh. 'I would love to say, "yes". But that wouldn't be to whole truth. Does he love me? Yes. Do I love him? Absolutely. But he told me before Christmas that he had to let me go, that he didn't want me endangered by fighting against You-Know-Who with him.'

'As if he could stop you,' Ron snorted. His mother's fierce side, so often submerged beneath the mother-hen exterior, ran undiluted and unchecked in his sister. She had proven herself a powerful witch – and her gift with Charms and Transfiguration was rapidly proving invaluable as Hogwarts slid more towards being a battleground and less of a schoolyard.

'Since then, he's been...it's difficult to say. We both know that this is our war as well as his...but sometimes...since the Riddle house...he can be so cold, Ron, so distant. So terse and – when he's holding me, half the time I feel like I'm melting into him, like we're puzzle pieces made to fit just so. Perfect. But the other half, it's like embracing one of Mum's wooden spoons, he's so hard.'

'Even with Hermione getting better,' Ron mused. In fact, as the witch's improvement became noticeable, her precocious magical abilities rapidly returning, the Boy-Who-Lived was swinging the other way, like a karmic pendulum exacting its due.

'His focus on her is also...unsettling. I'm not jealous,' she quickly assured her brother, who had raised both red eyebrows. 'I know that they treat each other like the brother and sister they never had. But it's hard to know that, right now, Harry is talking to Hermione, not me, about his last meeting with Dumbledore.'

'Nor me,' Ron pointed out, mouth twisting as he swallowed the acid taste of envy. When he had been younger, it had occasionally overwhelmed him. But they could ill afford childish tantrums now. 'They'll tell us later. Tonight. Or when they've found something.'

'I know. I keep hoping to find a way to show him that I'm not – we're not – going anywhere, no matter how hard he pushes.'

'We will,' Ron reached one long arm around his sister and hugged her gently. 'He'll snap out of it.'

Ginny's brown eyes flickered, and he knew that she didn't buy his confident tone any more than he, himself did, but she did not contradict him and instead allowed their talk to turn to Quidditch and the Order as they completed their circuit of the sluggish water.

~888~

'Have you ever heard of Horcruxes?' Harry asked, rubbing his scar. It was his habit when he was thinking of Voldemort, and Hermione wondered if touching his forehead heightened their connection, or whether it was simply an ingrained gesture.

She was sitting on his bed, the door to the boy's dormer locked and warded. She frowned, cocking her head, his faint smile at her unfocussed eyes going unnoticed. The wizard could almost see the thick, thin, old, new, leather-bound and cloth-lined tomes of the Hogwarts' library flickering across her mind's eye, discarded one by one as she mentally reviewed the contents and found them lacking.

'No. Not a single reference,' she said slowly, and her eyebrows drew together. Logically, she knew that there were many disciplines that couldn't possibly receive a mention at Hogwarts – the wizarding world was too vast, and seven years too short a time, to explore all of magic. But in six years of exhaustive research she had never even come across the term. 'What are they?'

'I don't know,' he said in exasperation. 'I – Professor Dumbledore showed me a memory of Voldemort talking to Professor Slughorn.' At her alarmed look, he hastily clarified, 'Voldemort as a boy, you know, when he was a student here.' She relaxed and nodded at him to continue. 'Unfortunately, that's pretty much it. Voldemort asked him about Horcruxes and then something went funny – the headmaster said the memory had been tampered with – and Slughorn denied knowing anything about them.'

'But neither of them mentioned what a Horcrux was for? Or what branch of magic?'

'I guess Dark,' Harry said with a shrug. 'The tampered memory was...frightened. Very. He was obviously scared of Dumbledore seeing the real thing.'

'Horcruxes...' She hesitated. She was no closer to making up her mind about her baby than she had been a week ago when she had learned of her condition – and still flatly unwilling to speak to her bondmate, regardless of what Madam Pomfrey suggested. She should be researching that, not picking up yet another project...

But Harry's private lessons with the headmaster were directly related to defeating the Dark Lord – and she was grateful for her friend's full-focus, for the snap in his jade eyes that told her he was here-and-now, not nursing one of his many waking nightmares or obsessions. If this Horcrux could be any help at all, she needed to know what it was.

'I'll go to the library,' she told him, putting on a smile. 'I'll get a note for the Restricted Section if I have to.'

Harry sighed in relief, realizing with a jolt of guilt that he had expected her to volunteer, known that she would set aside whatever else she might have to do.

'What would I do without you?' he said, and though it was meant to be light-hearted, both heard the sincerity of the question.

'Complete your own inquiries,' the witch told him cheerfully. Carefully lifting her backpack and allowing Harry to help her with the second strap, she started for the portrait hole.

~888~

'Well?' The aging voice interrupted his spinning thoughts the instant Snape's head lifted from the Pensieve.

'A Horcrux,' the younger man murmured, partially to himself. 'Unsurprising.'

'"Unsurprising?"' Dumbledore repeated incredulously.

'Yes. It's clear that my master survived his first fall – a thing that is impossible for any mere mortal. Ergo, the only conclusion to draw is that he is more – or less – than fully human.' The dark wizard sighed, first-finger and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose. 'Of course, immortality has always attracted him, and the creation of Horcruxes is not so difficult, if one is willing to take that first, soul-altering step.'

'Murder.' The flat word rang in the room.

'Murder of a specific kind, Headmaster. The power to create such an object lies in killing the harmless. It thrives on the rush of destroying those who have not earned destruction. Souls will not split for noble intent or necessary devastation. Self-defence or defence of family are perfect examples. One could not make a Horcrux from such events, even if they do result in the attacker's death. I believe warfare is also exempt. To make a Horcrux, it must be a deliberate execution from beginning to end – starting with the selection of a needless victim – and the victim's inability to stop you.'

'You know more about this than I would have wished, Severus,' Dumbledore said hoarsely, blue eyes glossed with tears.

'I know more about it than I want to, now.' A cynical twist of his mouth. 'But I am the Master of Assassins – a dangerous occupation – and I once researched with the intention of splitting my own soul.'

Dumbledore's eyelids fluttered closed, but he had to confess that he was not entirely shocked. Severus Snape was a brilliant wizard, one who had received precious little from his peers and his professors. He could not feign surprise that the young man had been tempted to follow in Riddle's deformed footsteps.

Snape's long fingers fluttered to the cracked ring lying on Dumbledore's hand. 'Is that what that was?'

'Yes.'

'Then you have already handled this complication. You destroyed the Horcrux, Potter will destroy the body. As the prophecy demands.'

'Unfortunately, no. I have set Harry the task of finding the undamaged memory. I fear, given this ring and another piece of evidence stuck under my nose some years ago, that Riddle made more than one.'

Snape stared, dread congealing in his gut. How many more? How many years would it take to rid the world of his Dark master? '_More_ than one? Is that possible?'

'I suspect that when you are as powerful and as hell-bent on your own mutilation as Tom Riddle became, many things that saner men would not dream of are possible.'

'And their destruction?'

Silence, as if the headmaster were struggling to put half-congealed thoughts into words. 'I think your bond to Hermione Granger may provide part of the key, if not the whole thing. At Samhain, I glimpsed how obsessed Riddle has become with the older rites and magics long lost to humanity. This is no more than a theory, but there's no denying the sheer, innate _quantity _of ancient power you now control between you.'

'We _don't_ control it. Headmaster, we have no idea how it works. Only that it seems incompatible with wand magic, and releases itself with very little warning.'

'Then we will have to determine how to master it, and soon. Speaking of which,' he switched tracks so quickly that Snape knew there would be no steering the discussion back onto its original course, 'have you made any progress with our Miss Granger?'

Snape dropped his eyes, unable to soften his harsh tone and unwilling to let his employer see his frustration. 'No. I have attempted to speak to her four times, and she has flatly refused. If you want this...confession...to take place, I fear you must arrange it.

'It's not a confession, Severus,' Dumbledore murmured, pained. 'It's an explanation. One we both owe her – not just you, my friend.' He shook himself. 'I will send her an owl. And in the meantime, of course,' his ruined hand swept broadly, taking in the office, the Pensieve and somehow the whole of the last hour, 'this is purely confidential.'

'Of course.'

~888~

'The Mudblood seems in a better mood these days,' Daphne Greengrass muttered to Pansy as they packed their bags from their Transfiguration NEWT.

The pug-nosed Slytherin turned her head to watch Hermione Granger deep in conversation with Professor McGonagall, the Head of Gryffindor obviously pleased at her favourite's return to form. Pansy scowled. The Mudblood improving, while Draco remained cold and distant as ever...

...and she still hadn't made up for last term, when the bitch and her bodyguards had put her, Crabbe and Goyle into the hospital wing...

...and the previous spring, for that disaster in Professor Umbridge's office that had brought Professor Snape's scorn pouring over them...

'Hey, Granger,' she sneered as the class reached the stairs, scattering for their next lessons. Potter and Weasley had already departed for their common room, leaving the Gryffindor alone to head to Arithmancy. Hermione turned, startled, to find herself facing the Slytherin's wand.

'What do you want, Parkinson?' she asked warily, subtly shifting her wand in her sleeve. Stone staircases were no places to duel.

'I owe you,' the other witch replied, voice saccharine. 'For all the lovely trouble you've given me recently.'

The hair on the back of Hermione's neck stood to attention. Pansy was in earnest, and the Gryffindor had no desire to fight battles. What would a curse, even a simple one, do to the baby?

'Make it up to me some other time,' Hermione heard herself say coolly. 'I'm busy now.'

'I don't think so!' Parkinson snarled, and drew her wand across the air, slashing as she cried, _'Diffindo!'_

Hermione gasped, throwing herself sideways as the curse whistled past her and she felt the wonderful warmth of her wand slide in her fingers as she flicked her sleeve. _Diffindo_ was only for objects. To use it on a person-

'_Expelliarmus!_' The wood flew from her hand, and the Gryffindor scrambled, seizing the banister and fighting panic. No first-year fight, this. The other girl was aiming for real injury-

Feeling as if her hearing were suspended somewhere above her, Hermione dimly heard three voices collide in her ears. _'Necto Terra!'_ came Parkinson's violently triumphant cry, married to a 'What the hell are you doing?' as Ginny sprinted towards them from her class and mixed with a terrifying bellow from the foot of the stairs.

'PARKINSON!'

The Gryffindor felt the slippery tongue of wand-magic reaching for her as Flamma erupted and buried the Slytherin's spell. Hermione's skin flared with brilliant orange fire, tendrils snapping towards her antagonist hungrily. _Consume. Eat. End,_ it hissed greedily, eager to conquer this threat to its mistress.

Cold doused her, and elemental anger rebounded into her, shaking through her limbs as fire was thwarted by water, the air around her hissing with steam. She spun on the balls of her feet, hands fisted and lost wand forgotten as she sought the source of interference-

Her bondmate had gripped her upper arms, steadying her as she reeled, the end of his wand jetting useless liquid, fire long extinguished.

_Still yourself. I will take care of it. The child..._a gentle warning flitted through her mind, and Hermione felt herself sagging against the narrow chest as immediate exhaustion chased on the heels of surging adrenaline.

'Professor-' Pansy was stammering as she stared into the coldly furious gaze of her Head of House. All the indulgence he had lavished on her for six years had transformed into icy disapproval, his thin mouth set in a taut line.

'Parkinson started it,' Ginny announced, having skidded to a halt next to her friend, and reaching for the arm that Snape had released.

'She did, Professor,' Ernie Macmillian was quick to add, swallowing nervously as the fathomless black turned on him.

Without looking down at the girl clutching him for support, the scathing voice added, 'Stand up, Miss Granger. You have legs. I suggest you use them.'

Embarrassment flushed the pregnant witch as she lifted her forehead from where it had fallen over his heart and quickly stepped away from him, into Ginny's embrace, which tightened as if afraid that Hermione would fall over.

'Fifty points from Gryffindor for an unseemly display. I also think a detention is in order for brawling publically,' said Snape, obsidian eyes glittering as he met his bondmate's gaze for the first time in weeks.

_Dumbledore's office. 8:00. There is much I need to tell you_.

The fierce rebellion she had offered him each time he had tried to speak to her had flown completely, and she inclined her head a fraction in acceptance, defiant refusals foregone in the face of her tiredness and a new, vibrant emotion reminiscent of hope.

Pansy started to breath in relief, only to find the unwelcome attention returned to her. 'And Miss Parkinson, I believe you and I have a great deal to discuss. My office. _Now_.' His voice had dropped to its most vicious, and Slytherin's princess paled visibly.

'Giving _you_ a detention? That's bloody unfair!' Ginny snapped as the black robes flicked out of sight around a corner.

'What kind of magic _was _that? That fire spell – and totally wandless!' Terry Boot enthused, flashing an incredulous grin. 'Parkinson looked like she wet herself!'

'Ask questions later.' The youngest Weasley's brusque tone discouraged the curious from pushing their luck as she steered her friend away from the rapidly-gathering crowd. 'How do you feel? Gryffindor common room or the hospital wing?'

'What? I...I'm fine,' Hermione replied, trying to pull herself back to the stones beneath her feet, struggling with an overwhelming sense of unreality as the red-head's hand on her shoulders directed her towards Gryffindor Tower.

_I love you._

'_...enjoy sharing my bed with a Mudblood...'_

_I will take care of it. The child..._

Snape knew about her pregnancy, and if she trusted the understated tenderness in his voice...

He cared for it.

And though she cursed her ever-hopeful heart, she could almost feel it beating a new tempo_._


	4. Ignorance

Disclaimer: Clearly, Harry Potter and all associated books, movies and paraphernalia do not belong to me. Many thanks to JKRowiling and others for their patience.

Ignorance…

_June, 1998_

The two figures stood in shadow, swathed by the black hole that was one of many pocketing Knockturn Alley.

The taller's voice was rough and low as he seized the shorter's upper arm, eliciting a gasp of pain from his victim. 'All of them? Potter has _all_ the remaining Horcruxes?'

'I just told you he did! Let me go!'

Seemingly without effort, the first shook the second hard, nearly knocking the cloaked head against the stone and instantly halting any attempt to escape.

'Not yet. Our lord wants some questions answered. If I were you, I'd pray to know what he needs.'

'We're going to see him?' There was no mistaking the tremor coming from behind the second mask, a vocal shiver that betrayed youth and uncertainty as well as fear. The first straightened, gloating plain from the arrogant carriage of his body even though the porcelain-white face covering kept his features from view.

'Yes, I think so,' he drawled, the sound icing the second's spine. This malicious, bullying voice had been inherited, passing from father to son. The unfortunate young Death Eater cringed at the sound. She had attended school for too long with that tone, and was well familiar with what would follow it.

Pain. Simply for the pleasure of watching her writhe. And if the son was bad, surely the father would be worse.

'What else does he want? What does he think I know?' she asked desperately.

'When. And where.' His manicured hand, already fastened so tightly on her arm she could feel her fingers tingling with the beginnings of numbness, squeezed tighter yet, and she could hear the smile in his tone as her breath sucked in, tears watering her eyes. 'Our lord thinks you might have such details, given how deeply…involved…you are with Potter and his crew.'

The crack of Disapparition disturbed only the three wretched pigeons sitting above them. The hawkers of wares and wizards strolling from shop to shop, packing the Alley even at ten minutes past midnight, did not so much as turn their heads. Knockturn Alley was not a place known for its safety or its honest business, after all. People vanished hastily, for destinations malignant and benign, everyday.

~888~

_February, 1997_

At five minutes to eight that evening, Hermione stood facing the stone guardian outside Dumbledore's office, breathing deeply to control the heart beating so loudly she was sure it was trying to leap from its place behind her ribcage.

_There is much I need to tell you._ His unpredictable nature had once again shifted. Why had her presence, so plainly repugnant before, instantly become critical?

Her pregnancy. It was the only possible explanation.

But would his reaction be the one she dared to hope for – the return of her witty and passionate bondmate – or the opposite, his utter and complete withdrawal?

Fleetingly, she longed for one of her friends. One of the heaviest burdens of her secret was the knowledge that she must bear it alone. The image of Harry's horror-lined face if he knew the truth behind her depressions cured her of the desire. Better to silence her tongue – his hatred of their teacher had increased ten-fold since Sirius' death – and she was certain their friendship would not survive such a fatal blow.

As it was, it had taken all of her younger self's bossiness to keep Harry and Ron in their seats tonight. Earlier, Ginny had wasted no time in relaying the tale of her mishap and lecturing both boys for disappearing before Hermione was well on her way to class. Ron's blue eyes had darkened with distress, and Harry's boiled with anger. The Gryffindor witch did not envy Pansy Parkinson. Whatever punishment Snape had chosen to inflict, there would be more in the way of revenge.

She bit her lip as she gazed at the unmoving granite face, chiselled wings swept upwards over stern features. Her rejection of her teacher's multiple requests sounded childishly in her ears. Would Dumbledore rebuke her or would both men take her insolence in stride, an allowance for the woman they expected her to become?

'Standing there all night won't solve the problem, dearie,' the gargoyle wheezed above her.

Feeling both far too old and like a child preparing for chastisement, she murmured the headmaster's current choice of sweets, and as the guardian grated aside, she stepped from the well-lit corridor into the guttering torchlight that barely illumined the stones leading her upward.

She had been in this office many more times than most students, and outside of her Occlumency lessons, she could not recall a single meeting where good news had been delivered. The headmaster's office might feel like a sanctuary, the calm at the eye of the magical storm enveloping Hogwarts and now the whole nation, but it had always been a place of dire proclamation, of confession, of confrontation. The sense of security lent by the cosy fire and ever-present tea tray was an illusion for children and adults alike, and as the presence of Severus Snape sharpened in her mind, Hermione was sure the content of tonight's meeting would be no different.

She was at the door before she could think any further about what might be said in a few minutes, and before she could lose her nerve, she lifted her fist to knock the oak worn smooth from years of hands beating against it, and heard the aged voice say, 'Come,' as the clock within struck the hour, the _bong _rebounding from the stone eight times as she entered and shut the door behind her.

Her gaze briefly absorbed the headmaster seated at his desk before fastening on the slender figure against the dark of windows, the fire casting light on one half of his body and leaving the other in darkness as he stood near the sill, his back to her, hands clasped loosely behind him.

Burgeoning hope lifted its head as she gazed at him, his puzzling rescue on the stairs allowing her to unlock a chest of denied desires. As frustrating as it was, as cruel as he had been, she still needed him, still missed him, still wanted him. The simple act of looking at him still gave her a sense of completion. Fire and earth rustled restlessly. Before Parkinson's attack, she hadn't stood this close to him for weeks.

Snape did not turn to face her. He acknowledged her presence only by the tensing of his fingers, and his deliberate aloofness irked her, bringing back all her fears and the pain of the last eight weeks. Delicate optimism died as her features tightened and she dragged her eyes from his black-clad frame and fixed it on the headmaster's tired but lively blue eyes and dark purple, flowing robes.

'Professor Snape summoned me here this afternoon. You wanted to see me, sir?' she opened politely.

Dumbledore stiffened automatically at the careful courtesy of her tone. The rigid control betrayed great misery, and the flat way she pronounced his name left little doubt as to the cause. Madam Pomfrey was correct – they had to remedy this situation.

Tonight, if possible.

'Indeed. Thank you for your promptness,' he smiled gently, and waved his hand, the silver tea service rising at his command and floating towards her. One small hand came up to accept as he continued. 'It is Professor Snape who needs a word with you. I thought that perhaps, my office being one of the few places in Hogwarts where I can guarantee a lack of prying eyes and ears, this would be an ideal location.'

She sipped the honeyed tea, amber-shot eyes wary as she purposefully did not look to her bondmate. The witch offered him no openings.

'How are you feeling?'

'Better, thank you,' she replied formally.

'Severus told me about Miss Parkinson's uncalled-for display earlier,' he continued, and there was no mistaking the genuine concern drawing his eyebrows together. 'You have suffered no ill effects?'

'No,' Hermione answered. 'I think Parkinson got more than she bargained for.' The contempt in her voice was so strong she blushed, and added more quietly, 'Sir.'

The old wizard sighed. 'Yes...I heard about your rather...unexpected reaction.' Sadness sharpened in the blue eyes. 'I fear we have done you no services, allowing this segregation to divide and conquer our hallways.'

Hermione merely shifted in her chair, unable to feel ashamed of her defence or her attitude. None of them had directly provoked Pansy's new, aggressive mood this year and she could not summon guilt for protecting herself.

As the silence grew strained, Dumbledore inhaled deeply and decided to concede to her obvious wish and go straight to the point. 'You can, doubtless, surmise my reason for calling you here, Miss Granger, but I will state it for clarity's sake.' His eyes cut towards Snape at the window, but she deliberately kept her glance on his wizened countenance, refusing to follow his lead. 'The two of you together hold the keys to the greatest power the Order possesses. It is my firm belief, from my rather extensive research regarding your – ah – unusual...circumstances, that you can turn the considerable magic you now command to the use of the Order and the destruction of that which Harry Potter and I are seeking.' He cleared his throat. 'There is, however, a major flaw to this plan, which I am sure you can also guess.'

His blue eyes shimmered with power and an endless compassion as he gazed at the woman in front of him, a student too young to be asked to carry the burden he was asking, a woman too old to refuse her duty once it was laid before her. He knew he was counting on her to be the person she had been before the relationship with her tempestuous partner had interrupted her life, and prayed that the bitterness that had become the filter for her world would not keep her from doing as he expected. He had always admired her courage and resiliency through the long years of informal, dangerous training she had endured at Harry Potter's side. Now, he would test both. He leaned across his desk, features carved with sincerity and continued quietly.

'I – the Order – need you both. But we need you as a team, not as separate items at the table. Your difficulties with one another must be resolved, for our defence must stand united, or fall, and your magic, while formidable individually, is unique when combined. I am more than willing to accept part of the blame for your predicament – and I apologize with all my heart for my greater sin, which was permitting you both to deal with so great a trial on your own for so long.'

Formality faded as earnestness replaced it. 'Severus does not deserve and is not asking for your complete forgiveness, Hermione. But it is unfair to lay all of the blame at his feet. We both – he and I – have erred here. So I am asking you to listen. For the sake of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, grant us mercy instead of justice, and open your mind to what he has to tell you. You might be surprised at what you come to understand.'

Hermione sat, straight and stiff in her chair, her throat closing with fury at such blatant manipulation. How dare the headmaster pull out that card, knowing that she couldn't decline when it was about Harry, about the Order…

_There is much I need to tell you._

Another glance at the studiously cold man with his back still to her and Hermione quashed her urge to refuse yet again. The tenderness in his thoughts today, the cruelty of his dismissal after Christmas, the desperation of his confession at the Riddle house...two and two were not making four.

And if their Raw Magic could make the difference that Professor Dumbledore seemed convinced of...

Curiosity mastered anger and she tilted her head in acceptance. Relief made a plain appearance in the face above the snow-coloured beard, but when she opened her mouth to ask a question, his hand came up, stalling her.

'I beg you: listen first. We will have all the time we require to talk afterwards. My private sitting room is behind the third bookshelf. Severus knows how to access it. Please – use that. It will keep...snooping eyes, and ears, from disturbing your talk.'

The portraits of many headmasters and headmistresses looked faintly mutinous at this clear refusal to satiate their boundless nosiness, and their eyes followed greedily as Snape reluctantly strode to the third shelf, pulled seven volumes off, apparently at random, and watched it swing back. He turned and locked eyes with her for the first time since she had entered the office, one hand held out in a gesture of courtesy that seemed a grotesque parody under the circumstances, his face utterly unreadable.

'After you, Miss Granger.'

Hermione didn't move. She hadn't been alone with him since he had thrown her out of his office, and in spite of her conflicting hopes and desires, was reluctant to be so now. She shot a swift look at the headmaster.

'Sir, would you-'

'I think it would be better for you to hear this privately, Hermione,' he said softly, and again, the compassion in his eyes spilled over, slightly calming her sudden nervousness. 'But I will be right here, should you need anything, or want to leave.'

She nodded, closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and pushed herself out of the armchair as she snapped them open again, vaguely surprised that her legs supported her as her stomach writhed with anxious dread. 'Thank you, sir.'

Without further hesitation, she walked through the hidden door and into a small space furnished only with two armchairs and a small, dark wood tea table. The rest of the room was lined with shelves, and she could feel the power of the wards crackling around them as her eyes automatically skimmed some of the titles, her innate need to learn untamed even in light of her purpose for being there.

She heard the _click_ that indicated the shelf-door had closed, leaving her completely alone with her ex-lover, and as she turned to face him, she was surprised to find her crippling agony and panic suddenly evaporated, replaced by a rock-solid strength that came from somewhere within. She was here as part of her fight for the Order, for Harry, for her place in the magical world she had embraced at eleven.

And the child. A child he had at least enough feeling for to protect. Optimism spread her irresistible petals in Hermione's heart once again. Even if he thought her no more than the dirt beneath his boots, if he was willing to be the father to this child...

Six weeks ago, she had left his office knowing that something within her had died, never to return. She recognized now that it had been herself. The girl that had drawn each breath with his every movement had been laid to rest, and an enormous sense of freedom flooded her with her comprehension, surpassing even the anger and grief of the past months to settle in her abdomen, just above the foetus.

'You were never dirt beneath my boots,' he said quietly. 'Even when I thought of you only as my student and Potter's best friend.' She gave him a tight smile, one that did not touch the confident, but wary, brown eyes.

Her detached regard made him feel fidgety – an impulse he had not suffered since before his graduation from Hogwarts. His hands returned to their military position behind his back to keep them still as she studied him as though he were one of the pickled specimens in his office. He had seen the weight of abrupt certainty settle in her eyes, the absolution granted by her sudden acknowledgement of a task greater than both of them and his heart swelled with pride for the woman she was becoming in spite of him, and pinched as he witnessed her comprehension of that which he already knew – that he had no place in her world. Shadows could not exist without light, but light shone independent of darkness.

'What happened with Parkinson today?' she asked abruptly. She wanted to have the facts before he tried to explain anything to her. 'I saw your wand spraying water – but _Aguamenti _could not have put out elemental fire.'

'It didn't. My water element contained your Flamma – much to my relief. You were attracting far too much attention to yourself – something you should be focussed on not doing. But you looked-' _magnificent –_ 'terrifying.' A brief image jolted into her mind, and she was seeing herself through his eyes. The witch had to admit she was intimidating. Her hair flared violently, making her whole head look like liquid flame as the fire surged forth from every patch of skin, reaching to wrap a panicked Pansy Parkinson in its fatal embrace.

Her eyes were wide when she met the black again, seeing the licking edges of molten orange nearly engulf her classmate. 'I almost...if you hadn't stopped me...'

'Your outburst today confirmed something we should have thought of before. The power we contain is lethal. The headmaster was in deadly earnest when he said we must learn to control it and turn it to a useful end.' His flat pronouncement was harsh, and he shifted slightly as he modulated his tone. 'I used my wand to cover my elemental magic because it would not do for Donald Parkinson, your classmate's father, to hear of any unusual connection we share. There are too many lives at stake if the wrong student divines the truth.'

_Connection we share_...so different that the brutal dismissal he had given her recently. 'I' had become 'we' again.

'What _is_ that connection, sir?' she asked him boldly, one hand spreading across her belly.

A long exhale, the fathomless look that thrilled and chilled her simultaneously. 'That is what we are here to discuss.'

Her eyebrows raised, inviting him to continue. Snape shook his head. 'It is too much to use language to explain what I must – nuances of meaning,' his eyes went to the bookshelves, unable to meet hers, 'emotions, are lost with words. Do you wish to view via Pensieve or direct link?' She blinked at the unexpected question, but quickly caught his meaning. Memory, not words, would provide his explanation.

'Pensieve? Where you can filter your thoughts?' she snorted softly. 'Legilimency, sir.'

'You do not need Legilimency to see into my thoughts, Miss Granger,' he retorted, voice remaining soft and relatively gentle. 'Simply the removal of my shields. Still...' he extended his hand, palm up, his meaning clear. 'I suggest you give me your hand. Skin-to-skin contact will ensure the best connection.'

Hermione stretched out her small fingers, but hesitated as they hovered over his hand, fire, water, air and earth snapping lazily between them, a miniature storm of magical light brewing as she spoke. The feeling of his body against hers earlier that day had affected her more than she cared to admit, and she wondered if voluntarily touching him now would snap her self-control. 'If I feel you hiding anything, I will withdraw.'

'Then you will see a great deal that is irrelevant, and probably many things you do not like,' he warned.

'You are a Death Eater and the Dark Lord's Master of Assassins. I expect most of what I see I will not like.' An unexpected lance of pain seared through him at her factual labelling of his grim reality, but he pushed it away. He was what he was, and they had both always known it.

'As you wish,' he conceded. This invasion of his privacy was unprecedented, and he was cringing at the necessity of allowing anyone, especially the witch he had worked so hard to protect, to see the whole of the inside of his mind, baring her to the consequences that would follow if his blood-eyed master ever knew. But he had pushed her over the edge of reason and past the age of bargaining. There was only unconditional surrender left if she was to be convinced of his sincerity.

Lifting her brown eyes to his black, Hermione dropped her hand onto his, the ends of her fingers grazing his wrist-

-and without conscious thought, without the need to push or seek or pull, she was within that which had been previously completely denied her: his mind.

It was neatly ordered, like her own, partitioned into sections of thoughts that made it something like a maze to navigate. After months of receiving emotions, impressions and thoughts at random intervals and more often than not by mistake or a lapse of his concentration, Hermione eagerly traversed the passageways of Snape's brain in an orderly fashion, exultant in the knowledge that she did not have to hurry – that he would not suddenly re-erect his shields and throw her out, her curiosity ignited by the abrupt gesture of openness that was so unlike him.

Flickers of many moments impinged on her consciousness as she travelled, all mental doors opened so that she might sift through them at her leisure. The first images to solidify as she passed the periphery of his thoughts were those of her professor as a tiny boy; sitting with his slender mother, his father's hand raised over him, the after-pain of a belt lash. Her fury at the grown man did not extend to this tiny, meter-high version of him, who even at four seemed to have shed all his baby-fat in favour of the sharp planes that formed his face now, and her pity and compassion washed over child-Snape, her heart aching against her will for the confusion she sensed in him.

But she did not linger there. The passages of the labyrinth seemed to draw ever inward, like roads leading to the centre of a city, and his early boyhood hovered on the outer fringes. Next in her line of vision stood teenager Snape – laughing with friends, furious at James Potter, blasting Sirius Black against a wall in the Charms corridor – but though her mind registered curiosity about people she knew and events that looked similar to her own school life, she did not stop, a more pressing need driving her towards the present. She brushed over his discovery of Remus Lupin's lycanthropy in the passageway under the Shrieking Shack, a dose of terror burning through her as she saw the wild wolf through his memory, a beast snarling at the end of a long tunnel, the light from Snape's wand glittering violently in the creature's eyes. Mouth gaping wide as Lupin bounded towards him, a tight hand on his shoulder, pulling him backwards – the dark tunnel morphed into a memory of the safe, spacious headmaster's office that was forever tied to this overwhelming fear. Hermione could feel the layers of resentment and anger focused like a windstorm on this instant, withstanding two decades of life as boy-Snape stood, disbelieving, before Dumbledore, who told him that Sirius Black, who had deliberately sent him to his death, would not be expelled.

The darkness of young Snape's emotions jumped her to another night, and his present-day mind supplied the time frame: the end of his sixth year – and she was with him as he knelt on a decaying hard wood floor that she recognized as the Riddle house, swearing his allegiance to Voldemort. Her body winced as she once again felt the burning of the Mark on his skin as if it were being tattooed on her own arm, unable to look away as Voldemort's wand traced the pattern on Snape's skin, consecrating him as a member of the grisly brotherhood.

The remembrances on the heels of the pain from the Mark were a jumbled mass of magical purges performed in coarse, black fabric and smooth, white masks. She felt his hands run over many weapons, Muggle and magical, made of wood, metal and hemp, and her fingers twitched with the feelings of rough and sanded, icy and thick as she witnessed flashes of his learning to kill silently and creatively, excelling in assassination as he had at everything else...

...and now he was kneeling in the office they had just left, Death Eater mask discarded on the plush, richly-coloured rug, an odd patch of white interrupting the vibrant greens, reds and blues.

_'I have told you all I know. Kill me, Headmaster. Please.'_

_'I will not. If you wish to atone for your crimes, Severus Snape, you cannot take the coward's way out...'_ And Hermione recalled vividly the madness in his eyes when Sirius Black had called him a coward in the Shrieking Shack three years prior, and felt that she had gleaned a vital, if small, piece of information about this man whose soul was fused to hers.

And the years whirled together, moving her deeper into his thoughts as news of Voldemort's collapse reached him, as he and Dumbledore discussed the avenues of the Dark Lord's certain attempt at regeneration, as Harry Potter was enrolled at age eleven. She could feel his mind bucking with the intrusion of her penetration, the effort that it took for him to keep it open to her, to welcome her instead of seeking to expel her as he had always done to both of the men who had long grown used to simply taking what they wanted from his brain. But though they ached to snap closed, the shields built from nearly two decades practice of Occlumency remained at bay, and Hermione found it in herself to feel gratitude to him as the enormity of his self-restraint poured over her. Here, there was nothing left to hide, nothing he could attempt to keep from her without also losing his last chance to speak to her, and while his hand had been forced by Dumbledore, he had made his decision – even though it was the hardest of his life.

She was barely aware of her hand touching him as she explored within. She felt his loathing spike as Harry's name was announced at their first Sorting and her gawky friend, wearing James Potter's face, took his place on the stool, hat slumping over his eyes. She felt his irritation turn to anger at Harry's carelessness with the mountain troll and with Hagrid's baby dragon, Norbert, and Hermione felt a chill as she reached the root of his rage – not hatred, but a twisted sense of caring that had nothing to do with Harry personally and everything to do with the fact that Snape knew that this eleven-year-old child with a penchant for trouble was the wizarding world's last, best hope for peace.

Determination struck her solidly, and she was experiencing his mounting sense of pressure as he tried to keep Quirrell from the Philosopher's Stone. Fear for the nearly thousand students under his care rolled over her next, and she was standing over a Petrified Mrs. Norris, Colin Creevey with his acrid, burnt film, Justin Finch-Fletchley and her second-year self, looking cold and dead in her bed in the hospital wing. She felt a curious emotion added to the balance of fear as she looked through her teacher's eyes as he gazed at her form, arrested permanently in a gesture of surprise. A fleeting, grudging admiration tinged Snape's rising need to discover the cause of the attacks, and Hermione suddenly knew that in spite of his cruelty to her and his genuine frustration with her dangerous antics, he had always appreciated her intelligence.

Third and fourth year kaleidoscoped through her mind in a series of snapshot images, seen briefly and then fading, a string of mild emotions rolling with them, so swiftly it became a jumbled mess inside her mind, but Hermione did not stop to untangle it. So far, she had seen much that she could have guessed at, and was seeking something new. Something closer to home. Something that had occurred in the past six to eight months.

And as she rounded another corner in the maze of his thoughts, she began to find it. She saw herself through his eyes, lying in his storeroom, blood seeping from her head to stain the stone, felt his worry. But this time, knowing what to look for, she could feel the ignition of attraction, the subtle shift from the dutiful concern of a teacher transforming to the deeper caring for someone who was more than a student as her memory-self opened her eyes and stared directly into his.

His fierce fight with his growing attraction to his student took her down roads lined with self-castigation. She watched him grading papers in the office she knew too well, only to reach hers, see her name in her neat handwriting at the top of the parchment, and slump forward in his chair, the tips of his fingers pressed against his face, nails pressing crescents into his skin. She felt the rawness of his jealousy tied to a waterfall of mental pictures of her with Ron Weasley – holding hands as they walked to dinner, as they sat outside together, his long legs stretched out as he leaned indolently against her in the spring sunshine, as they laughed together walking to class, as he leaned over to brush his mouth against her cheek. Hermione, watching herself, realized that none of the indecision that had torn her in two at the time appeared on her face, that to her professor, she had looked completely happy, enthralled by her first boyfriend, content, exuberant, joyful. As she rolled forward, reaching for summer and the Burrow, she wished fervently that her feelings had been what Snape had assumed – she looked so happy in them – and knew that her mind, open to him as his was to her, was telling him that his impressions were false, that even as he had been consumed by envy for Ron, her reluctant desire had already turned to him.

She resisted the temptation to re-live their time together in the makeshift potions lab at the Burrow, but there was something different about these recollections. They seemed to call to her, beckoning her forward, summoning her to look, the attendant emotions heightened, the moments seeming brighter, more detailed. Her query at their peculiar, luminous quality turned into an answer almost instantly: these were moments he prized, memories he held precious to the point of sanctity, and Hermione's anger at him, already shaken by his openness, took a further blow and began to crumble, confusion at his contradictory behaviour taking its place.

_Why?_ she asked.

_Watch,_ came his silent reply.

And now they were back at Hogwarts, the strain of their magical bonding growing to the point of pain, and Hermione was surprised anew at the toll it had taken on both of them – at the dullness of Snape's skin as he shaved, at the delicacy of her appearance. For it was after the summer, away from Molly Weasley's sumptuous dinners and constant mothering, that she had begun to grow thinner.

A flicker of amusement touched her as she watched him beseech Dumbledore to send her away until the end of the war – the same request she had made of the headmaster at a later date – and he was denied as she had been.

The headmaster's aging face was replaced by Voldemort's cruel features, and she stopped fully to observe, sensing that she had reached a crucial moment in her search.

_'Bonded?'_ _he hissed, red eyes flashing furiously. 'My dear, _faithful _servant, how could _that _significant detail have possibly slipped your mind?' _Hermione felt the weight of Snape's failure, and her bondmate's fear of repercussion – not against himself, but against her. _Voldemort's wand was trained on him, the world narrowed to the fire in his nerves, to the screams he could not contain..._

_...and he was on his feet again, listening dully as the Dark Lord dictated his life. 'When the child is born, bring it to me.'_

_'As you wish, my lord.' _Fury blazed through her anew, hardening her softening thoughts. How dare he so casually promise their child to his master?

_Think,_ came his command, and she could hear the impatience searing his voice. _Had I said something to make him doubt my loyalty, I would not have survived the encounter. And you...he would have brought you and your significant power to his heels in one manner or another._

Hermione bit down on her uncharitable response. There was no denying that Voldemort seldom took 'no' for an answer, but...his memory stopped as she demanded, _Then is it true or not? Will you give him our child?_

_I would sooner hand him my soul._

The fervent promise shocked her, and she felt a spring of possessiveness flowing over her, winding around her tightly. _There is little enough in this world that is mine. As long as I draw breath, he will never lay a hand on you. Or the child._

Memory continued. The dark-haired wizard was in his office once again, ink spreading over a hapless sheet of parchment, his mind not on his grading as the black blot grew ever-bigger, but on her, on the face that she could see clearly in his mind's eye, on the debate that sickened him and thrilled him all together. Water and air snapped around him, answering his emotional turmoil and Hermione felt again the jolt of longing and pure desire they engendered, the blistering need for her that Snape felt, the dim knowledge that without consummation, madness would eat them both alive. She felt him weighing the consequences, and the terrible certainty with which he made his decision.

His existence and her safety depended on his obedience to Voldemort. Harry Potter and the Order's needs, too, dictated his choice. Harry could not win if Snape disobeyed, for deliberate refusal to comply would result in his death, and Harry needed Snape to complete the task he was being given by the headmaster. And neither Snape nor Dumbledore knew what would happen to Hermione if her bondmate died. Her immediate reaction to his being tortured, however, boded ill for any more drastic measures, and Snape was unwilling to court her physical destruction, even as he knew he was setting in motion events that would force him to purposefully break her heart. Hermione heard herself draw a deep breath as she finally knew that he had planned his cold, aloof withdrawal from her from this moment. The hurt wrenching at him had been balanced on the scales with the needs of the many, and he had made the choice he always made: to serve the interests of the larger world.

...they were in the greenhouse, and she felt for the first time the undiluted strength of his love for her, so strong she ceased to breathe as it bathed her in incandescent light, a healing balm and a request for forgiveness at the same time as she saw herself through his eyes, and knew that the adoration in them had been sincere.

_You are so beautiful,_ the sentiment echoed in both past and present as Hermione looked and present-day Snape watched her looking...

...she was lying in his desk in his office after their second time, her confusion and hurt at his sudden withdrawal teeming in the back of his mind, and she felt his resolve nearly buckle as he turned to her again once he was fully dressed, appreciating the wildness of her hair, the rapidly-fading brilliance of her eyes as his hard words pushed her away after their love-making, forcing his own detachment, knowing that if the Dark Lord looked into his mind and saw love there, they were both lost...

...he was kneeling again in front of Voldemort, the lord delivering a tongue-lashing for Snape's failure to impregnate her...

...she was lying in the prefect's bath, having fallen asleep, and she could taste his tears as they silently made their way down his face. His wonder submerged her as he admired the slender lines of her limbs, the dip of her back where it curved to meet her bottom, the smoothness of her unbroken skin, the curls of her hair, wet with the scented water, one hand stroking from her shoulder to the base of her spine. Immense sorrow followed as he heaved himself out of the bath, dressed and gazed at her again, still resting. _'I am sorry, Hermione,' _he whispered. The tenderness in his remembered voice made her wish she had been awake – she had heard this tone only a few times, and never when pronouncing her name.

...they were picnicking in the Forbidden Forest, and in a curious twist of feeling, Hermione felt an affection of a more innocent kind suffuse her as she observed her professor beforehand, spy and teacher vanished, replaced by a man who genuinely desired nothing more than to please her. The picnic basket was wrapped clumsily in a blanket on his desk as he stood worrying over whether she would like it, no more knowledgeable on this front than any boy her own age. The next image was her leaning against the greenhouses, and Hermione was struck, both by her own thoughts and by Snape-of-the-past's thoughts at how old she looked, and how tired, like a woman with at least three times her years, and not like a schoolgirl any longer. She felt his step falter as guilt at having been part of the process that aged her so quickly gnawed at him. But she knew, too, that while he intellectually accepted her status as his student, since that summer he had not been able to truly see her as such, and that this woman had long replaced the girl.

A shaft of self-hatred splintered through her next, and she was watching as he wandlessly, wordlessly, countered her contraceptive spells for the first time. One mystery explained. It had nothing to do with old magics, simply his will. But why had he waited? Why not during their cold encounter in his office?

_This was my excuse, _he told her directly, in a voice both his own and not his own, much gentler than she had ever heard him speak either out loud or in the privacy of their connection. _The only way I could touch you, the only way I could spend any time with you. As long as you were not pregnant, the Dark Lord could not fault me for being with you, or deny the need brought on by the bonding magic. _

Her only answer to this was another, deeper level of unvoiced understanding as she kept going, a mere few layers of labyrinth from the centre now, and Hermione moved faster, eager to see the core, to fill in the painting that was taking definite form...

...she was standing in a patch of late autumn sunlight with Ginny Weasley, gold and amber glinting from the sun-made highlights in her hair and she could feel his heart ache as he paused in his step on the staircase, above them, unheeded as he observed her...

...she walked through the door to Slughorn's party on McLaggen's arm, and she felt the sand-blasting of his envy and possessiveness from the safety of a corner where he sipped water, even as he admired her bouncing ringlets, and the way she looked in the dark, rich green of her heavy, formal dress robes, the style much more sophisticated and adult than the lighter ones she had worn two years prior to the Yule Ball...

...she felt the silky snarls of her hair gliding through his fingers, the Room of Requirement lit by the pale yellow light of early morning to reveal the bedroom that it had become for them in the wake of the party. From her place within his mind, Hermione knew that he was gazing at her with a completely unguarded expression, happiness and sorrow weaving together in a bittersweet tapestry as she heard some of the wishes that he had not been able to keep himself from feeling, and the unshakeable conviction that they would never come to pass.

Memory-Hermione stirred, she felt a great reluctance belonging to her bondmate, and then another spell passed his lips, and a formless shape of silver shot to hover over her belly, revolving there slowly. Hermione recognized it from her reading as a diagnostic spell, specifically for pregnancy, and abrupt understanding of why the burning need for him had vanished with the coming of Christmas crystallized. _This_ was the precise date of her conception. She felt his wash of fierce, instinctive joy. _Mine_, his mind sang over her and their child, only to be submerged by despair as he pushed the fantasy away and slipped from the room almost too late, his sleep-filled name resounding in his ears as she woke calling to him.

Hermione recalled that morning with a clarity that tore at her, and knew that Snape could see what she could, her complete, lazy contentment just before waking, their bond telling her that he was still in the room, and her disappointment as she felt him vanish, the sheets still smelling of him and of them as she rose, washed, dressed perfunctorily and returned to Gryffindor tower to pack for the holidays, the afterglow of her happiness lasting through packing and distracted goodbyes.

Now she was gazing up at the dilapidated front of the Riddle house, dread drowning her as Snape ascended the uncared-for lawn...

...they were standing in a meeting of Death Eaters, Voldemort's Circle of Pure-Bloods, eleven in number following the demise of Peter Pettigrew, standing at full attention as their lord delivered commands. His mind supplied the date once again: December twenty-third, five days after she had left Hogwarts for the holidays. Hermione listened carefully, attention absorbed by the skeletal figure next to the hearth. From the apprehension of Snape's mind, she knew that this memory contained the last piece of what she needed to know, the final details of the plan her bondmate had devised over two months ago.

_'Potter's Mudblood, Hermione Granger, you all know her?' Voldemort hissed sibilantly. The question was greeted with nods and murmurs of affirmation from several Death Eaters. _

_'Would you like to see her taken down to size, my lord?' sniggered Antonin Dolohov, his birch rod rolling idly in his hands. Within an exhale, Dolohov was thrashing on the floor, screaming under Voldemort's wand, the curse murmured so automatically that Snape had not even heard it leave his master's mouth. The lord lifted the polished yew almost casually._

_'Don't interrupt, Dolohov, it's rude,' he ordered lightly. 'Thank you, however, for bringing me straight to the point. In point of fact, I do _not _want her 'taken down to size' or 'disposed of' or 'handled' in any way.' The entire room stood straighter, stiffening with their lord's unexpected instruction, a curiosity that none dared voice lacing the air as eyes darted back and forth, seeking in one another an explanation for this abrupt reversal of policy on a known priority target._

_'The Mudblood is carrying something that is valued beyond price and extremely precious to me. This must not be damaged. You will not touch her. You will not hurt her. You will not engage in combat if she is present. Until further notice, you – all of you and all the Death Eaters under your command – are under orders to protect her. Help her if you are present and she needs it, defend her if you think it necessary.' His red eyes fastened on Lucius' slate-grey. 'Warn your children off her. Your son, Lucius, has been particularly provocative in the past. I think he should have enough to occupy his time now without Mudblood-baiting, but if he still taunts the girl, order him to cease. Immediately.'_

_Behind Snape, Bellatrix Lestrange's confused, raspy tones took the place of the cold voice when he paused, and she hesitantly asked, 'My lord, does the girl take precedence over Potter?'_

_'In what way?' Voldemort queried._

_'If we are in a position to capture Potter and she is there-'_

_'Then you leave them both alone. You have all studied this girl and what we know of her habits and character. You know that if she senses one of her friends in danger, she will do what she can to help them, which might endanger my prize. Nothing, I repeat, NOTHING is to disturb her. She is now more important than your children, than your spouses, than your lives.'_

_Bafflement loaded the air following the completion of the lord's pronouncement, and Voldemort, sensing it, smiled indulgently, his thin mouth curving in a cruel expression of ruthless amusement. 'Come now. I never give orders without good reason. Do not worry that I have gone soft and become a Muggle and Mudblood lover like Albus Dumbledore. In due time, this edict will be repealed and the girl will be fair game like the rest of them.'_

_The smile vanished. 'But until that time, anyone who so much as startles her will have earned my _severe _displeasure.' His deliberate emphasis made it quite clear that the unlucky perpetrator of this crime would pay a high price in blood, and there were swift nods of acquiescence and understanding from all assembled._

As Hermione watched the small group disband within Snape's mind, feeling his sense of grim, joyless satisfaction of a job well done, numbing waves of both disbelief and total comprehension crashed over her. This had been the centre of his decision, his wager that Voldemort would issue these orders as long as she had something he wanted, placing her under the protection of the two most powerful wizards in Britain for almost a year. Buying time for Harry to find this elusive Horcrux, for it to be put to some use...purchasing her life at an excruciating cost.

Snape was kneeling again at Voldemort's feet as the last of his fellows filed out, and Hermione could feel the hard wood as if her knee were folded against it.

_'Ensure that she is safe at Hogwarts. Take no chances...perhaps she could be removed from the more volatile classes? I recall that Potions was always potentially hazardous.'_

_'I will see to it that nothing touches her,'_ Snape promised, and Hermione could hear the sincerity in his voice as well as his mind, perhaps too much so, for Voldemort gazed into his servant's eyes, scarlet poring over the contents of Snape's mind and replied sternly.

_'Do not attach yourself to the girl, Severus, or the child. Don't allow yourself to forget that they belong to me.'_ Voldemort's meaning and threat were clear, and Hermione felt her bondmate wall off his fear as he broke eye contact by bowing again and acquiescing smoothly.

_'Of course not, my lord.'_

_Voldemort's smile returned. 'You have done well.' A pale hand descended on Snape's shoulder in an almost fatherly fashion, and Hermione was surprised to hear genuine pride and…was that affection?...in the lord's next words. 'I know that sharing your bed with a student – especially one of Muggle parentage – was reprehensive to you. But I am grateful for your obedience. When I have the child, you will be granted whatever you wish.' _And the same bleak sense of duty fulfilled made Snape's footsteps heavy as he inclined his head, murmured his thanks, and strode from the room. He had only one more job to do...

...she jumped forward to the memory of her face as she burst through the doors and into his office, features shining with eagerness, eyes bright with anticipation. She cringed at the excitement that emanated from every fibre of her being. She knew the reception she was about to receive and was unable to change the past, to alter watching her heart break again.

But Hermione felt, too, his un-dampened rush of pleasure at her presence, a moment of bliss on seeing her again for just an instant before he steeled himself to carry out his orders, to completely sever his emotional attachment to her, to do what he must, regardless of the clamour in his blood to pull her to him, to touch those pliant lips with his own. She heard his mental mantra: _She is your student_, and felt it fail him, felt his arms nearly rise from the desk where they seemed to rest so carelessly to embrace her...

Nevertheless, he spoke his words in his hard, unyielding voice, suffered the scouring storm of her rage, hatred, self-loathing and misery and endured her slaps. Hermione felt her cheeks stinging with his as her hands connected with each side of his face, the force of her blows jerking his head from side to side. And under the avalanche of two severe sets of emotions, Hermione felt again his satisfaction, the same as listening to Voldemort give the orders for her protection, though it cleaved his heart in half to feel the weight of her pain. Her bondmate was finished. His lord would never know how deeply Snape loved the Muggle-born witch carrying Voldemort's sought-after treasure, and her heart would have iced against him by the time he carried out Dumbledore's wishes, saving her further pain. Without her trust, he would have no access to the child, and her rapidly growing skill at Occlumency would ensure that he did not even know the time and date of its coming. After its birth, his only offspring would be spirited away from the violence of warfare by his bondmate, Voldemort's plans for the infant and its mother ruined...and all while Severus Snape followed orders.

Hermione had moved past memory and sensation into the inner sanctum of the mind, the core of his being, unexpected understanding enfolding her warmly. Here, thought transcended the limitations of syllables and sounds and simply was, floating in pure, raw, emotional form. Love and terror bathed her in equal parts, accompanied by a maelstrom of pride, worry, adoration, admiration and wonder. And she heard the same quiet, peculiar voice that he had used before, a voice utterly controlled and at the same time completely abandoned, as his feelings for her took solid shape between them, shared by both minds.

_Does one thank the sun for rising everyday? No. But without it, all life on earth would wither and die. Nor does one express gratitude to the moon for the ocean tides, but without her, the seas would cease to move. You are the air I breathe and the earth that supports me, the reason for my living and the agent by which I survive. My love for you is my most valued pain, and your safety is my solitary concern. You are my Laili, my Goddess, my Holy Grail, my beloved forever beyond my reach. And so you must remain. _

_It was my intention to force you and the baby out of his hands, away from the war in any way I could. It seems that I did not know you as well as I should have, to not know that fighting at Potter's side would always come first for you, that we must both remain with him if we are to succeed. _

_I am sorry, Hermione. I know I cannot say it enough, but I am sorry._

And in the next breath, she was staring into his black eyes, his hand clasping hers so tightly her unfeeling fingers were crushed together. His silent testament echoed between them, filling them both, the words he could never say aloud overflowing her heart.

Flamma whistled and Ether tugged her upwards. Surrendering herself to the total understanding that had filled her, she tilted her head back, reaching for him as his mouth crushed over hers, the magic of their binding singing in their blood.


	5. Was Bliss

Disclaimer: Clearly, Harry Potter and all associated books, movies and paraphernalia do not belong to me. Many thanks to JKRowiling and others for their patience.

…Was Bliss

_June, 1998_

Charlie Weasley stepped into the lamplight in the entry of Grimmauld Place, his easy smile a rare sight that brought answering grins from the careworn faces clustered to greet him. 'Charlie!' Ginny hurtled past Harry, nearly knocking the young hero off his feet as she shoved him aside to get to the brother she hadn't seen for more than a year. After Charlie had finished swinging his light sister in an arc of enthusiasm, Ron rushed to his other side, and the brothers threw friendly arms around one another's shoulders to the sound of much back-slapping.

Following Ron came Molly and Arthur and the irrepressible twins, crowding a missed member of their family, talking over one another in a storm of news-trading and loud good-humour that Grimmauld Place had been distinctly lacking. Kingsley Shacklebolt and Harry traded amused looks in the shadows near the stairs, but Moody's blue eye was whirring wildly with his impatience, and as the seconds ticked past with no sign of ending the genial swapping of old and untold stories, he gradually cleared his gravelly throat.

'As sweet as this is, are you going to stand here all night having a bloody family reunion or do we get to know why you're here?'

Charlie gave his mother one final pat on the back and turned to Ron. 'You got my owl?'

'Obviously,' the younger Weasley waved his hand in a gesture that took in the assembled members of the Order there to greet him. 'But you were a little vague on the details.'

'Yes, well, with the Death Eaters taking over everything, I didn't want to get to specific. Any mail might be intercepted.'

'That's why we tend not to use owls,' Harry announced quietly, making his presence known. Charlie's sparkling brown eyes locked on him, and the young dragon-tamer felt a shock akin to pain rock through him. He had not seen Harry more than once or twice from a distance since the Triwizard Tournament, and this weary young man who looked like he carried the whole world on his back was not the laughing, if nervous, boy his memory supplied. His repressive childhood had aged the raven-haired wizard quickly, and he had always seemed older than his years, but now…now he had the look of a captain who had sustained too many losses, drained to the point of exhaustion, battling uphill only for the sake of the witches and wizards behind him. Harry would be eighteen in a little over a month and a half, but Charlie felt as though he were staring into the face of someone many years his senior.

'I have a force of one hundred and ten dragon keepers from all over the globe,' Charlie reported, and his spine stiffened automatically, as if speaking to a general. 'They are currently camped on a moor south of Hogwarts with their charges.'

'You brought _dragons_?' Ron whispered in awe.

'Yes. Hermione Granger told me that the final battle seems to be drawing near and that I should be here as quickly as possible. The dragons have been trained for battle and though I would hardly call them tame, they are ready to be added to your fighting force.'

The uneasy silence that settled over the hallway was not what Charlie had expected from this news. The dragons were the only creatures that could truly combat Voldemort's army of giants, and a cavalry of fire-breathers would give them a significant advantage – not the least because your ordinary witches and wizards, Death Eaters included, were terrified of the beasts. The second son of Arthur Weasley had expected relief, questions and strategy, but not this abrupt, peculiar pall.

'Hermione…?' Harry finally managed, and his voice sounded very distant and clipped as if it were closing off tears. And Charlie then noticed Tonks and Shacklebolt trading uncomfortable glances and Moody positively glowering from his corner.

Charlie blinked and glanced in appeal to Ron. His gaze clearly said, _What the hell is going on here?_ His younger brother's mouth twitched in a smile that held no mirth and he mouthed, 'Later.'

Shifting awkwardly, Charlie decided to answer the partial question Harry had asked. 'Hermione wrote me some months ago that dragons would be a useful component of any fight and asked if I could train them to be battle ready. I replied that I thought it was possible.' He glanced around in bewilderment as this news apparently reached them for the first time. 'I thought…I assumed she did it at the Order's command.'

'Miss Granger does very little that the Order commands,' Moody bit out angrily, and Charlie knew he had accidently driven nails into a deep-running wound.

'Perhaps if you would listen to her, she would do more,' came a familiar, acidic voice from the back of the throng. The members of the Order parted for McGonagall to come through, and she was the only one who seemed completely unsurprised to see Charlie.

'You brought the dragons?'

'More than a hundred,' he answered, relieved that at least one of the joint heads of the Order knew why he was there.

'Why didn't she tell us?' Harry asked, and though his tone was fairly neutral, there was no denying the anger that tightened his voice. He glared at McGonagall, jade eyes icing. 'Why didn't _you_ tell us?'

'She was under house arrest at _your_ command when she sent the first letter, Mr. Potter,' Minerva replied icily. '_You_ decided not to trust her, if you will rightly recall.'

Charlie felt as if he had unknowingly dropped a grenade into a scorpion's nest. House arrest? Hermione Granger? And it was clear that McGonagall, who had always been so protective and proud of Harry, and James Potter's son, were at odds. What had happened to the Order of the Phoenix? Another beseeching glance to Ron caught his younger brother rolling his eyes, and Fred and George were trading dark looks.

'C'mon. I can tell you the basic points. You're lucky you were in Romania with the dragons,' Ron muttered as they wove through the throng, ignoring the simmering argument behind them. 'At least _they_ only spit fire at you.'

~888~

_February, 1997_

Hermione did not know how long she stood in his embrace, welcoming the heat of reunion after what seemed an age of separation. Her single, coherent, individual thought was that it seemed strange for there to be two bodies in the room when their breathing rose and fell together and she could feel his blood flowing in his veins as if it were her own. A glance at the magic tangling through their limbs told her that fire, water, wind and air agreed, wrapping the physical connection of their bodies in criss-crossed layers of elements so dense that patches of their robes vanished beneath the flaring light.

The clock above them struck one tolling _bong_ for the half hour, cracking the private cocoon of their concentration, and Snape spoke aloud, his voice sounding rough and rusted over her head, as if it were not in the habit of being used.

'Forgive me. You are the only thing in the world that I have wanted for myself in almost twenty years.'

She leaned back, amber eyes searching his remote face. 'Yet you were willing to sacrifice-'

'Better your hatred than your death,' he answered brusquely, jaw locking. But the long hands at the base of her spine tightened, pulling her back into him, the pressure growing almost painful.

She barely felt it, mind whirring. Only half an hour. It had taken him less than thirty minutes to once again completely turn her world upside-down, and to utterly dispel the fury and crushing weight of sorrow that had carried her through the past weeks. She felt as if she were waking fully from a nightmare, emerging from a dense fog. The items around her looked brighter, as if all the candles and lamps had doubled their output, coating the office in a shining glaze and chasing away shadows.

She was just beginning to sort through the many images, impressions and emotions that she had acquired but skimmed over while in his head, and she frantically shoved the thoughts clamouring for attention into a mental box. Later, she could sort them out and make sense of them. Now she had to focus on what she had seen last, putting away both the shimmer of undying hope and leaping joy for her new understanding, knowing that by seeing what she had, she had ruined the careful plans he had laid for her and their child's safety. And in light of this, there was only one question she wanted to ask.

'Why?'

An eyebrow arched as she did not expand on her spoken words, their connection providing him with the pictures and thoughts he needed to answer. Why had he told her, and brought many months of planning to ruin?

'Because I now know that I made a mistake in assuming that you would let anything – even our child – stand in the way of helping Potter and the Order,' he replied quietly. 'And because Professor Dumbledore, knowing our potential, ordered me to speak to you.'

With the headmaster's name, Hermione felt an all-too-familiar and yet foreign dread slam through her, settling in her legs, in her stomach, in her chest, pressing on her heart, and she hurtled into her bondmate's mind once more, seeking the reason for his consuming feeling that had transferred so easily to her-

Years of Occlumency training sprang into place, throwing her from the world of the mind back into their physical reality, gates locking on the city of his thoughts, disappointed surprise and immediate fury their guards. _Do not do that again. My mind is not for you to simply enter as you wish_. A surge of anger and frustration bathed her, anger at her presumption, the frustration carried over from years of enduring two men constantly besieging his brain.

'I'm sorry,' she murmured, bowing her head in contrition for her thoughtlessness.

'There are rules of politeness amongst Legilimens of great power, Miss Granger,' he replied stiffly, but without his previous flash of rage, her entirely sincere apology soothing him. 'Only the Dark Lord takes what he wants without permission. Even the headmaster is scrupulous to ask before entry.' The bitterness of irony in his voice left her with no doubt that the elder wizard's request was always granted – that Dumbledore asked knowing that he could not be denied.

'And as to the rest of your questions…' He sounded resigned now, and Hermione was startled by her own surprise at hearing this note in his voice, once again impressed by how little she knew about the man whose child stirred to life in her. He often sneered, he seldom laughed, his fury was quick to rise and his grudges slow to fade, he ran hot and cold at whim, he was calculating and hard and she had just felt absolute gentleness. But he was always confident and in control, in a classroom, amongst the Death Eaters, while love-making. She had never heard him sound…beaten.

Except in his memory of begging Professor Dumbledore for death.

'The headmaster is about to enlighten you further as to his reasons.' His black eyes flickered towards the clock, and she felt his muscles tense in preparation to back away. 'We should return to his office. He will tell you why we requested your presence tonight.'

Bafflement made a 'v' in her eyebrows. 'I thought this-' and her eyes took in the room, and his long form, '-was why you summoned me.'

'No. This is what he would call "The Curtain Raiser",' Snape replied dryly, his mouth quirking for his employer's enjoyment of strange phrases. 'This was necessary so that he could inform you of the rest of it.'

'Ensuring that we _could_ work together before he demanded it?' Hermione hazarded a guess, her voice sounding more like her bondmate's than she knew, even as she fought an overwhelming exhaustion. Her emotions had come through the wringer and out again, overloaded both from Snape's and her own as she had walked through his mind. The idea of facing the Head of the Order – who had made it brutally clear that he thought her an adult, with an adult's responsibilities – to learn something more, made her wince.

'The sooner you know this, the better,' Snape quietly answered her unspoken whirling mood. She grimaced her acceptance at him as he finally released her, severing their physical connection and highlighting the end of their privacy.

'Thank you,' she said stalling him briefly as he reached towards the bookcase to let them out.

He glanced down at her, his arm falling in startled bewilderment, and did not need to formulate the words as incredulity poured into her. _For what?_

'For your honesty. For allowing me access to everything. I could sense that you wanted to push me out, and that you stopped yourself, permitting me to go much deeper than anyone else ever has, to touch the core of who you are. To open your mind so fully…' _It would be difficult for anyone. From you – who has led a life of shadow for almost two decades – it is a gift beyond price._

'Those were my orders,' he told her gently, swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat at her words. 'But there is no denying that you deserved every minute.' He shifted on his feet, his black eyes darkening with the intensity she had come to know during their brief liaison, and she felt her heart beat faster in response. 'I know that no amount of apologizing will undo what I have done, but I am sorry, Hermione. A gift? No. You earned it. Do you think I have been blind and deaf to your pain over the past weeks? I shared with you every morning that you awakened and wondered whether you could drag yourself from your bed, all the tears that fell at night before you slept. I know well that _this_,' a long finger came to rest against his temple, 'was all I could give you to save that which has become dearest to me.'

_Dearest…_she did not doubt it, but a shaft of disbelieving pleasure caught her, delight in hearing him say it aloud.

'Come. The headmaster is waiting for us,' he prompted her.

As he turned and pushed the catch to release the bookcase, he felt the pressure of her fingers on his forearm, her small hand resting lightly like a lady walking to court in centuries past.

_Professor Dumbledore desired our accord when he called this meeting. It will save unnecessary words to show him that it has been reached. And_, the second part came as an after-thought with distinctly mischievous overtones, _I miss touching you._

The lithe wizard glanced down at the woman standing next to him, and his mental picture of her, already significantly altered from what it had been a scant year ago, shed the last vestiges of childhood from its frame. Through her touch, her mind running a fine stream of thought into him, he could feel the solidity of her determination, and the completeness of her comprehension and its accompanying forgiveness, under lit by love as steady as her beating heart. She had risen this morning with earth-coloured eyes telling the story of a trust betrayed, ready for and needing her independence. Now, she stood next to him not only as the woman he burned for, but with the promise of a constant helpmeet and companion, and the avalanche of emotion that filled his throat also halted his steps as he _knew_, for the first time since his very young childhood, that he no longer stood alone.

The bookcase slid open, and Hermione Granger and Severus Snape stepped back into the office, side by side.

~888~

'Draco.'

The blond froze as he heard his name, one foot halfway to landing outside Slytherin's common room, stone door already beginning to grate closed to seal the entrance and hide it from the untrained eye.

Lounging against the wall, not five feet from him, stood Blaise Zabini, dark skin and black robes aiding him in melting into the long patches of shadow that were the trademark of their dungeon House. Draco cursed the haste that had caused his carelessness, especially in front of this boy. Crabbe and Goyle followed orders, Pansy Parkinson was content to simper – as if he couldn't see the dreams of spending Malfoy money in her eyes as she batted her lashes – but Blaise was unlike any other Slytherin the heir to the Malfoy name knew, and he had always tread delicately around the immovable, seemingly placid boy.

Blaise had proven impervious to money, flattery, and bullying. He stood like a large boulder in a fast-moving stream of aristocratic alliances and feuds, other students eddying around him as they flowed into and out of friendships, but choosing no faction himself from amongst the many that jockeyed for power and favour with each other and their Head. Draco's repeated attempts at camaraderie had gradually earned them a decent working relationship. The pampered son of Lucius lacked the skills to build genuine friendship – he was long since accustomed to having it laid at his feet. But the money in the Zabini accounts rivalled that of Lucius Malfoy's vast holdings, and Zabini's marks had been consistently as good as and better than Draco's own. Politics and business seemed to bore the half-Egyptian, and the rising Dark Lord was no better a subject. His mother had supported neither the Ministry nor Voldemort during the first rise, nor had she conspicuously donated to excellent causes as his father had done afterward. Her deliberate aloofness indicated quite flagrantly, to those who knew what to look for, that she had no interest in buttering anyone's bread but her own, and no debt to be repaid to society for past sins.

Surreptitious whispers dropped Blaise's way during this second rise met with all the reaction of stone falling into an empty well, his blank, unruffled stare quickly quenching the desire to ask his opinion. He had floated through the year – which was proving to be difficult on followers of Light and Dark both – apparently untouched, as if there were no war outside, as if the Britain surrounding Hogwarts were the same country it had been when he had entered school at eleven years old.

He was, in short, the only Slytherin Draco wasn't sure he could convince not to turn him in to their Defence Professor for being out after curfew, which he would be as soon as he finished stepping out of the half-closed door. And though his mother had begged him to take advantage of the help his Head of House was offering him, Draco was distinctly uninterested in Snape's interference. Severus Snape held the place next to the Dark Lord his father coveted, and it was Draco's duty to earn it back for him.

'A bit late for the library. Madam Pince has closed it by now,' Blaise said idly, cleaning one fingernail. Nervousness flared in the blond, quickly masked through long practice – it was going to be one of _these_ conversations – married to an absurd jealousy. Whether the other boy had planned to catch Draco or simply happened to be in the common room at the right time, Draco could not tell. His manner gave Draco no clues as to his intentions, and the pale-skinned boy envied Blaise's complete cool. As he flicked a bit of lint to the carpet under his feet, Blaise looked directly at Draco for the first time.

'Where are you going?' Draco saw genuine interest flash there, and a flicker of – was that worry? And why? Blaise barely knew him. But the converse was also true, and, having kept his work a secret for months, Draco was not going to tell his elusive classmate now.

'I have an Astronomy paper due tomorrow,' he lied, trying to smile casually. He was not taking Astronomy at the NEWT level, but someone had long ago coined the term when referring to a tryst. It was a mundane enough statement to be true – and personal enough to prompt Zabini to politely close the conversation.

The other boy did not take the hint. 'You have an assignment.' His tone made it clear that he did not mean academia. Draco's grey eyes widened, and he struggled to breath as all his air left his lungs in one audible _whooosh_. Blaise tilted his head, black eyes unnervingly steady as they trained on Draco. 'Shall I take that as a yes?'

Coherent thought had vanished along with oxygen, and as Draco sucked in the latter, he scrambled to compose his mind, which had scattered like pollen in wind. Only Crabbe and Goyle knew that he was working on a project for the Dark Lord, and even they didn't know any details. How could Blaise Zabini, whose head was always buried in a book or absorbed in playing chess – against himself – know anything about it? Or how the Dark Lord operated? Or, for that matter, that Draco had taken the Mark?

His body betrayed him as he reached the last thought and he subconsciously shifted his left arm to hide any chance that Blaise might see the tattoo, in spite of the long sleeves that half-covered Draco's pale hands. The black eyes flickered to follow the movement, and were cooler when they met the grey again.

'Tattooing is permanent, you know. In thirty years when your skin is sagging, you might not want that.'

The ridiculousness of the statement, uttered by a boy backed by the impressive orange flames in the ornate fireplace, forced a barked laugh out of Draco. 'Tattoo? It's nothing,' he bluffed. 'Just a scratch I got in Defence earlier.'

'You were sick during Defence today,' Blaise parried, and Draco felt ice coat his stomach as if he had swallowed snow. He would have to pay much better attention to this classmate of his. Blaise observed and remembered entirely too many things that didn't concern him.

'Are you stalking me?' The question was meant to be light-hearted, a joke, but it was a clear miss, even to Draco's own ears, and he winced at the genuine worry he heard there.

'Of course,' Blaise deadpanned, and Draco gave him a long look, wishing for the discomfiting, penetrating stare that Dumbledore had mastered years before, unsure whether the other boy was returning falsehood with falsehood or telling the truth. The impassive face observing him gave away nothing.

But he had a job to do, one that would not get done if he wasted his time locked in a conversation that was more like a dance, and memories of the Dark Lord's whispered threats to his mother prompted Draco to complete his exit without bandying more words with his slippery housemate and step outside the common room. 'See you,' he tossed off, the casual dismissal sounding awkward as it filled the air after their not-entirely-friendly half-conversation.

As the stone slowly eclipsed the world draped in green and silver from his view, he could still see Blaise, standing at ease and motionless, black eyes locked dispassionately on Draco, lounging with one shoulder against the granite wall worn smooth from a millennia's use of posturing and threats.

~888~

Hermione stopped short as the bookcase slid closed behind them and not one, but two heads syncopated in their turn towards the couple emerging from Dumbledore's private room. The young woman's hand suddenly felt heavy where it lay on her bondmate's sleeve, for there was no mistaking that Minerva McGonagall's sharp blue eyes had fastened on it instantly before moving up to her student's face.

The seventeen-year-old witch tensed, ready for an explosion of indignation and righteous fury that would put her Head of House's previous lectures to shame, and found herself holding her breath as the expected impact never came.

'I'm not going to berate you, Miss Granger,' McGonagall said, and there was warmth in her quiet tone. Her eyes turned to her colleague, growing minutely colder as they did so. But his black orbs were fastened in turn on Dumbledore, something like betrayal igniting in them as he voiced the question their rigid posture had already asked.

'What is she doing here?'

'I recall you urging me last term to speak to Minerva, Severus. After much thought, and considering the position Hermione will be in, I decided you were correct.' The headmaster's beard quirked upwards, indicating a smile as he gestured to where Hermione's hand had impulsively tightened on Snape's arm, her fingernails whitening with the pressure of her grasp. 'I do not think you have to hold onto him so tightly, my dear. Neither of us is going to rip him away from you.'

Hermione blushed, embarrassed, and forced her fingers to relax, though not release. She returned her attention to her Transfiguration professor. 'Did you – how did you know?' she altered the question halfway through asking. It was quite clear that McGonagall was not at all shocked by the relationship between student and teacher that was not what previous appearances would suggest.

'I was present when Albus discovered your…connection…last spring,' McGonagall responded.

A memory shoved its way to the forefront of Hermione's mind, and frustration with her own stupidity swamped her. She had run to McGonagall when Snape had first been Summoned to Voldemort the previous term, had reacted violently to the torture inflicted upon him…and McGonagall had asked no questions, but instead offered exactly the right advice, instructing her as if she knew precisely what was occurring…

And the young woman felt an unexpected, vast sense of relief coloured instantly by disappointment and resentment as she recalled the many nights she had sat, rocking herself on her bed as tears streamed down her face, aching loneliness and the suffocating need for a confidant eating at her, knowing that she could not speak to Lavender or Ginny or Luna, terrified of McGonagall discovering her secret, forgetting in her grief that the older woman had already betrayed herself. 'You knew…the whole time?' she asked slowly.

McGonagall sat up straighter in her chair, knowing the wave that was about to break over her, accepting Hermione's anger as the consequence of her silence. After all, she had argued with her husband on this same subject not long ago, trying to impress upon him Hermione's need for a sympathetic ear, for an older woman's advice.

'You knew.' The stillness was deafening, condemnation loading the two words. 'I wanted…I _needed_ help, Professor. If you already knew…' the rest went unspoken, and Minerva bit the inside of her cheek to control the water that flooded her eyelids at the baffled pain in her student's voice, and the words that went unspoken but were, nevertheless, clearly heard. _Why didn't you talk to me? Why didn't you help?_ Hermione Granger, unable to speak to the women who traditionally guided their daughters and protégés through the treacherous waters of the heart, had desperately needed a mother and a guide, and Minerva could have been – should have been – both.

'Albus told me not to. We agreed that the fewer people implicated by scandal, should it break, the better.' A beat, and then her quiet, 'It was the wrong decision. I apologize, Hermione.' No one present could doubt the sincere sorrow in her gentle voice, or the regret that loaded every syllable.

And, even as the petulant cries that the headmaster couldn't understand and McGonagall should have known better than to obey him welled in her throat, the younger witch choked them. Callous though it was, strategically speaking, Professor Dumbledore had been correct. The last thing Hogwarts needed was to lose Snape, Dumbledore and McGonagall all together, which surely would have been the consequences had one of her classmates seen or heard the wrong thing. Like everything else, Hermione's heart – broken or whole – had to take second place to keeping the wizarding world secure. Especially this bastion of learning with its untrained and unprepared children.

'There was no right decision,' Hermione answered seriously, and McGonagall closed her eyes against the ten years added to that steady voice. 'I cannot fault you for choosing to attend to the responsibilities you have to so many others, or your obedience to our general.' The young witch turned her attention back to Dumbledore, who had winced as she deliberately pronounced the title he had never been formally given. 'Have you ceased to be worried about someone finding out, sir?'

'I was never overly concerned in the first place, Hermione. Severus' sense of discretion is rather…developed…as I am sure you have noticed, and you are not the flighty type of girl to go about creating scenes that would endanger the two of you. But I have found that failure to take precautions in even the smallest of matters – binding Sirius' house-elf Kreacher to complete silence, for instance – can have colossal repercussions. No – it is not that I am more or less anxious about that than I have ever been about the public learning of your bonding, but simply that another problem has outweighed my initial judgment on the matter.' He cleared his throat, and gestured to the two unoccupied chairs in front of his desk. 'Please, Severus, Hermione, sit down.'

Still slightly nervous, Hermione settled herself between her two teachers. McGonagall reached one veined hand over to touch her shoulder, and the clear signal of support and apology sent warmth through the young woman. She smiled quickly at her teacher in acknowledgment that she understood McGonagall's decision, and also that it had not been one lightly made.

'Is this about the Horcrux, sir?' Hermione asked boldly as the headmaster shuffled items on his desk. The blue eyes met hers sharply, and he asked:

'Harry has spoken to you, of course.'

'Yes, Professor.'

'It is, in part. There is also this peculiar power that you share with Severus. Given the unexpected nature of your self-defence today, I trust I don't need to waste breath exhorting you to learn as much about this magic as you can. I know that it will take a great deal of personal time to conduct the necessary study – and I consider all of us fortunate that both you and Severus are nothing if not consummate researchers.' Her nod signalled her assent, and the headmaster's gaze shot between the two adults seated to either side of her.

'As I said, I have recently had cause to review some of my choices regarding the war effort, and as we are bearing down on a crisis point, I have determined that a change in my approach is necessary.'

His eyes were unusually solemn as they looked over his desk, and sorrow consumed them as he gazed at McGonagall.

'This year, both Tom and I have set events in motion that, I believe, will come to a climax in June. Following this, I expect the war will erupt in all the bloodshed that has heretofore been kept down to a few isolated events. Hogwarts, in all likelihood, will be closed next year, for the Order will need all of the able bodies it can get to end the conflict as swiftly as possible – and the school in session is a prime target for the Death Eaters to attack.

'Unfortunately, I will not be here to guide you after this school year and so I need capable lieutenants – people who know my plans, to take my place as leaders of our defence.'

'Why…?' McGonagall started, and the quiet quality of personal devastation in her voice made Hermione glance at her sharply.

Dumbledore took a deep breath, and the sadness radiating from behind the spectacles that usually gleamed with knowledge, kindness or madcap fun increased. 'I'm dying.'

The room went dead still. Hermione would later swear that the clock had ceased ticking off seconds as the three people sitting across his desk stared at the headmaster, premature grief swamping them. Though he had known for months, Snape felt a mantle as heavy as chainmail descend over him at hearing the words spoken so finally. They had plans. They had schemes. The elderly wizard had designed his own snare so the world could continue.

But Albus Dumbledore would not.

McGonagall spoke first, and her student was sure she had never heard so broken a sound. The firm, fair Head of Gryffindor sounded like her heart had been ripped from her chest and ground into the dust.

'Albus…you…how?…Why didn't you tell me?'

And the dreadful cracking of her voice at the end told a whole story in and of itself, which Dumbledore's next words confirmed.

'I'm sorry, my love. I thought it would be better for Severus if no one else knew.'

'Severus…?' Minerva had not followed her husband's thoughts in this jump, and Snape winced as he faced his colleague, praying that the genuine affection they felt for one another would survive the next five minutes. He cleared his throat, easing back the sorrow to allow himself speech.

'The headmaster is suffering from a curse that was placed on the Peverell ring. When he destroyed the Horcrux dwelling therein, he activated the magic. It is slowly poisoning him, and there is no known or findable cure.'

'You told me that it was not immediately fatal,' she said quietly, voice stressed and low. She had expressed the worry that her husband was dying only two months ago when speaking to her younger colleague, but to hear it spoken so finally – a reality instead of conjecture, tightened her throat, making her next words difficult to say. 'You said that Severus had time to find a solution, a cure, even if it took years.'

'We no longer have years, but he will give me a solution, in a way.' Dumbledore dropped his eyes, hands re-arranging some of the papers on his desk idly. When he lifted his gaze again, he changed subjects. 'That is the first problem, and the one of my own making. However, we have a second issue to deal with – the one that Tom has created. He has branded Draco Malfoy, and sent the boy here with a specific task to be completed by the end of the year.' A long pause stretched before Dumbledore's quiet voice finished the statement. 'Killing me.'

Through a haze of grief and instinctive anger at the young Slytherin who had caused her six years of trouble, Hermione thought, _Harry's right. Malfoy _is _up to something_. The knowledge that Harry's obsession of their first term was not groundless did nothing to comfort her. Still…Dumbledore had defeated Grindelwald and was the only wizard Voldemort feared. A stuck-up Slytherin bully who was still in the throes of puberty could not be more than a laughably pathetic annoyance to him.

'Surely Malfoy is not a threat to you, sir?' she ventured hesitantly. 'I mean, he's not a problem for Harry or Ron or me, and we don't have one tenth your power.'

'There you are wrong, Hermione. The three of you are plenty talented and powerful. But you are correct in your assumption that Draco on his own would not cause a problem. The trouble is in the confluence of events, my own waning magic, and the need for Harry to step out on his own.'

He turned his blue eyes on Hermione. 'You are aware, by now, of my search for the Horcruxes that Tom Riddle made.'

'Yes, sir.' Her lips twisted in annoyance. 'But I can't help you yet. The library has _nothing_ on the subject.' This characteristic frustration brought a genuine smile the old wizard's eyes. Before he could speak, the young witch straightened in her chair, forehead wrinkling. 'Horcruxes? Plural?'

'Unfortunately, yes. I believe there is more than one.'

'What are they, sir?' she pressed, all eager scholar.

'I fear it is my fault you are having no luck with the library, my dear. Horcruxes represent the Darkest of magic, a side of our birthright tied to rituals so old that they should have been lost with the rest of such magics. I won't be encouraging other young people to follow Riddle's example – and so all of those books have been removed from our shelves, even from the Restricted Section. My apologies.

'As to what they are... To put it succinctly, Horcruxes are pieces of a human soul, divided from the original body and stored inside an object. I believe that Tom made six Horcruxes during his first rise to power. Two have been destroyed, leaving the world with a potential four that must be eliminated before he can be permanently stopped.

'This is only my theory. I _know_ that both the Peverell ring and the diary given to Ginevra Weasley her first year were Horcruxes. Everything beyond that is conjecture. Harry Potter is currently trying to discover something that I hope will tell me whether I have guessed right or wrong as to the total number of times Lord Voldemort has split his soul.

'Tom, naturally, does not like what I am doing, and so I have become his primary target. I think he underestimates you, Hermione, and Ronald Weasley, as he has always brushed Harry aside. He believes that, because of your youth and relative inexperience, you will be incapable of continuing the search for the pieces of his soul without me. He is mistaken, but that works to our advantage.

'I believe I am close now to locating another piece of his soul, assuming that the object in question is what I think it is. Before the end of the year, I expect to find a third Horcrux and receive an equally awful hex,' here he shook the sleeve that covered his blackened hand, 'for my pains. A second curse added to the first will speed my end considerably, and in a very painful way. Draco Malfoy will find it within his magical capacity to kill me at this time.'

'Then why don't we-' Hermione started.

'Surely the boy can be removed-' McGonagall began. Both stopped, each woman indicating the other should speak first. The older witch's silence held longer, and Hermione turned again to the headmaster, puzzlement in her face.

'Why don't you let a team from the Ministry destroy it, sir? Or Auror Moody? Or Bill Weasley, as a Cursebreaker from Gringotts? The Order and Hogwarts need you too much, Professor, to risk you on that. Can you not send professionals for it when you find it?'

'Thank you, Miss Granger. I couldn't have put it better myself,' McGonagall nodded approvingly. But laced with her mild words of praise, Hermione could hear real desperation and hope. 'In the meantime, we can have Draco Malfoy removed from Hogwarts. If we explained the situation to Poppy, I'm sure she would write a note for a grievous illness that requires him to be sent home immediately.'

Dumbledore smiled gently at both of them, shaking his head. 'Draco must remain here. If we send him home, Tom will kill him, and possibly his mother as well.'

The words _so what?_ rose to Hermione's lips, but she kept the uncharitable thought at bay, vaguely ashamed that she could wish such a fate on her classmate, unpleasant though he had been for the entire time she had known him. Her Transfiguration professor had no such compunction.

'This sounds more callous than it is intended to, but Albus, I frankly don't understand. You are far more valuable to the safety of Britain and the winning of the war than Narcissa and Draco Malfoy.'

'On that point I think time will prove you incorrect.' Dumbledore leaned across his desk, and Hermione had the impression, in spite of his smooth voice and unchanging features, that these words were the most difficult he had spoken in many years. He did not look to her as he spoke, but the blue eyes remained locked on her Head of House, as if Snape and Hermione had ceased to be present.

'I am the only one who can go for this next Horcrux, though I think I will take Harry with me. There is a pattern emerging as to Tom's desired hiding places – each piece of his soul is stored somewhere deeply connected to his psyche and personal history, which it has taken me more than fifty years to piece together. No one else would know where to find this, or be capable of figuring out the wards that surround it, and I do not have time to train someone else to take my place. I have made it my business to study Tom Riddle intensively for the past decade, and I believe I am beginning to understand how he thinks.'

He shifted then, and his gaze opened to include the other couple in the room. 'As to your question of actually destroying this Horcrux and the ones that come after...Hermione, that task will unfortunately be left to you, Severus and your friends. I expect that simply breaching the wards to reach this one will mostly finish me off, and certainly make me incapable of performing any real magic. But even if I could, I doubt I – or any of the Aurors or professional Cursebreakers – could fully destroy this one.

'I think he made six, as I already said, and two of them – the diary and this ring, have been destroyed. These two are, incidentally, his earliest, pre-dating the other four by nearly twenty years – if we believe his known murder record. It is my belief that these two were essentially for practice. They were imperfect in their creation and the hexes that guarded them were weaker. I think the other four, if they exist, are different. The second group of Horcruxes were made from a perfected technique, and thus are flawlessly sundered. I am guessing that these pieces of soul are much stronger and that the magic defending them is far more complicated. In all likelihood, they exist in tandem with one another. Based on Tom's obsession with old magic and the Dark Arts, I think it highly probable that he has warded them in such a way that all four must be physically located in the same place in order to destroy them.

'What this magic is, I cannot say. I have to translate the journals of the Ang'guin Weyr so I have plenty of conjecture, but very little fact. Severus has been bequeathed the books containing the relevant information, as well as my extensive notes on the matter, and upon my death they will appear in your house at Spinner's End – it will save you unnecessary time and trouble,' he told the younger wizard. Snape nodded jerkily.

'I still don't see any proof here that you need to die, Albus. What does Malfoy have to do with any of this?' McGonagall demanded.

'He lacks the hardness of a killer. His solitary attempt so far – the cursed necklace that Miss Katie Bell unfortunately touched – was so weak that I think it's clear his heart is not in it. Tom knows this as surely as I do. Draco has been given a task he cannot follow through on as punishment for his father's failure in the Department of Mysteries. But Tom did not hinge all of his hopes on a seventeen-year-old turning over a leaf that none of us think he has. There was a second plan set in motion by his mother, as Tom knew there would be. Narcissa requested help from another source, someone to watch over her son and to complete the task ordained for him if he should fail, as everyone knows he must.

'Regardless of whether I die from the _Avada Kedavra_ or the poison spreading through me, I will not live to complete the necessary task of discovering all of the remaining Horcruxes. By giving Draco Malfoy this task and forcing Narcissa's hand, Tom has ensured that my death can put us much closer to ending the war. Someone must be left behind who is capable of getting Tom to tell the Order where the last pieces of his soul are, for without their destruction, the wizarding world will simply be stuck in a cycle of war and attrition, unable to truly rid ourselves of Lord Voldemort. We don't have time for someone to spend the next five decades assembling the puzzle that I have been piecing together. And Narcissa Malfoy has, unwittingly, handed us exactly what we need by seeking help for her son from the person she chose to be his guardian.

'Killing me, the only wizard Tom has ever feared, is proof of loyalty indeed. Enough proof to become the most trusted servant amongst his many. I pray enough to learn what Harry and the Order need to know.'

A moment before Dumbledore spoke his next words, Hermione felt her bondmate tense next to her, dread and apprehension flowing into her in spite of his shielding, and she _knew_ what the headmaster was going to say.

'Narcissa asked for Severus to swear an Unbreakable Vow to finish what her son has started. After I find this Horcrux, he will fulfil his oath.'

~888~

His hand hovering over the black rook who was quietly insisting that he should be moving the knight instead, Blaise sat, thinking. And not about his game, much to his pieces' dismay.

At age eleven, Blaise Zabini had arrived at Hogwarts and been sorted into Slytherin as somewhat of an enigma, a reputation he had deliberately enhanced over the past five and a half years. The tight, closed-off world that most of his peers inhabited was one he had never visited, his mother remaining aloof from the petty skirmishes of high society and the all-out war between the old money of Britain and the ruthlessly inventive, mixed-blood, rising class of _Nuevo riche_. As most of his house mates belonged to one class or the other, this newcomer with flawless bloodlines, deep pockets and a quiet, confident magical skill who ascribed to neither had been greeted with a mixture of wariness and eagerness, those eager to befriend him or belittle him making themselves known over the course of his first weeks.

But he had found himself genuinely uninterested in most of them. The Crown Prince of their House was a spoilt child, and Blaise had found he felt little other than contempt for Draco Malfoy and his hangers-on, his bully-boys and simpering soon-to-be fiancée, if rumour were to be believed. As they shared classes with the other Houses, young Blaise had begun to fiercely regret being Sorted into Slytherin. He had not met a Hufflepuff he thought had the brains to fill a pea, but many of the Ravenclaws had piqued his interest and so, ever since she had bested them all in Transfiguration during their first lesson and continued to take the top marks in every class, had Hermione Granger.

Never one to hold with convention, as a first year he had sought an opportunity to speak to her, ignoring the traditional rivalry that separated Slytherin and Gryffindor. But after that Halloween, she had been attached at the hip with Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived and an undeniable political figure, both in the world outside Hogwarts and inside the castle walls, where his private battles with the son of a notorious Death Eater were common knowledge. Being seen in her company had suddenly become a declaration of loyalty to something and someone else, a commitment Blaise's family had avoided making for decades, and so he had withdrawn that unvoiced hope and kept to himself, engaging in polite conversation with his housemates when it pleased him, sitting with a book propped open or at his well-used chessboard when it did not. The checkerboard of black-and-white had proved a more impenetrable defence than any shield charm, and it had not taken his fellow students long to learn that they could not disturb him – and that there could be some nasty hexes involved if they tried.

His mother had been adamant since he had been old enough to understand even the barest sketches of political life: stay out of it. Empires rise and fall, but the gold behind them stays the same. Be the money, not the emperor, and you will ride tidal waves of glory and ruin like a seagull in an ocean storm – unaffected by howling wind and torrents of rain, while ships of state splinter against stone.

But now…

Draco was not a friend, but the pallor of the boy's face, the silencing spells around his bed that betrayed nightmares, the grey eyes that alternated between mania and listlessness had been preying on Blaise's mind. His mother's ingrained lessons had kept him from truly looking for the past year, wilfully blinding himself to the world gradually disintegrating into chaos – but when Draco had stepped into his compartment on the Hogwarts Express that autumn, the dark young wizard had experienced a shaft of unease so acute it was almost physically painful, and try as he might to brush it aside, the easy indifference that had draped over him like an invisibility cloak for his whole life had vanished. The son of Lucius and Narcissa had always been pampered and arrogant, two behaviours Blaise could dismiss as unworthy of thought. But for those qualities to vanish in the space of a summer, to be replaced by this uncertain, fearful, pressured young man had abruptly brought the war to Blaise's attention in the worst way. It was no longer just something that the _Prophet _used to sell papers and engender hysteria: it was destroying people he knew, pulling down the lives of those around him not brick by brick but like a bulldozer levelling buildings.

And Draco wasn't the only one. The entire, growing, Potter crowd had also shifted, ranks closing around the suddenly-silent Granger and the brooding, depressed hero, radiating a toughness born of battle experience and a cynicism that came from watching others die. Most of the sixth and seventh years had matured abruptly as the war continued to accelerate, and Blaise was finding himself unable to reconcile his mother's attitude with the world around them. The wealthy might always float, but how much blood flowed underneath them, and how much of it might they have prevented?

Fingers drummed the marble board, the ignored pieces looking to him for instruction, his rook's carved face vaguely hopeful that it might not get moved after all. After a moment of listening to his nails click on polished stone, Blaise pushed himself up from the table, abandoning his game.

Five years ago, he had strangled his faint wishes of friendship with Hermione Granger, consigning her to a world that he would never join.

Now she would prove his gateway.

~888~

The door to Dumbledore's office, for all its weight, shut nearly silently on Snape and Hermione's heels, and McGonagall was moving even as the latch _clicked_ into place. She came round the desk, throwing aside the dignified cloak she maintained for others as she seated herself on her husband's knees, searching the blue eyes for some hint that all he had just told her was a lie, that he would not be leaving her to face the impending years alone...

She did not find it, as she knew she wouldn't. He had been completely serious as he outlined why his death was necessary, what it would accomplish, and the steps she and Hermione would have to take in securing the Order following his demise.

The logical part of her brain understood the whys and wherefores, but the crying of her heart lodged in her throat and prickled at her eyelids, and underneath the vast pain of knowing he was dying was the roaring anger that he had not told her until now – and that he had chosen to tell her in front of Severus and one of their students.

'Why didn't you tell me before? When you cracked the ring and knew Severus could not cure you properly?' she whispered hoarsely, her tears preventing her vocal chords from working properly.

He sighed heavily. 'When I first destroyed this piece of Tom's soul, I was unaware of the plan he had set in motion. I truly thought that I did have time – although Severus' prognosis for my recovery has always been bleak. Later...later I thought it would be easier for you if you didn't know, Minerva. I was…I wanted to protect you,' he murmured, his good hand rising to remove the pins from her bun. 'I didn't want to cause you more pain than you will already suffer.' He blew a long breath. 'And I was afraid you would stop me.'

'I still might.' She snapped to keep her tears from spilling, felt herself fail, and the salt water begin to fall . 'I don't know if I can bear to watch you go where I can't follow.'

'Do you think,' he said quietly, and his voice was easily as croaky as hers, 'that I want to go? That I want to leave you and Hogwarts and Harry behind? But I have been as bad as Tom in many respects, Minerva. Severus. Harry. Hermione. Even you, I have directed and used to fight. I cannot remain in my ivory tower, untouched, as my soldiers – many of them children, children I will gladly die to protect – fight and fall. Not when my death can accomplish so much at once.' He was drawing his gnarled fingers through the black-and-grey locks that fell to her waist, the habitual motion soothing both of them.

'I am old, Minerva, and tired. It is time, in more ways than one. Do not grieve too much, my love. We have shared forty years here that I would not trade for another day on my dwindling calendar. Death is no more than a temporary separation, after all, and when it is your turn to pass through the veil, I will be waiting for you on the other side.'

~888~

Hermione walked steadily down the curving stairs leading to the gargoyle entrance, not looking at the man whose step perfectly matched hers. Her mind felt unexpectedly empty, as if the vast amount of information it had processed in the last hour and a half could not all be handled at once, and so none of it would be.

But there was one subject that could not be delayed. 'There is still the child,' she said quietly as they reached the bottom of the stairs, her hand on his arm to delay his exit.

'I know,' he said, grief still washing through his voice. 'I had hoped...but now is not the time.'

'No,' she agreed. She felt hollow, burned out. It was too much to know and certainly too much to feel.

'Tomorrow?' she ventured wearily.

'Will Potter and Weasley's nosiness survive another night when you disappear, unexplained?'

Hermione grimaced. 'You gave me a detention tonight – the only mysterious thing about that is how soon you have let me out. We need to decide. Soon, Severus.'

'Agreed.' A heartbeat's hesitation, and then he stepped forward, closing his arms around her gently, allowing her to push away if she wished. A feeling of intense gratitude warmed him as her limbs slowly relaxed against him and she rested her head on his chest, listening to the gentle thudding of his blood. He resisted the urge to tilt that head back and meet her full mouth with his thin one. Passion had come first – but that stage had been completed, the fires banked by fulfilment of their magics' demands, and there was too much he needed to learn about this witch as a person. For all his knowledge of her body, his actions had proven that he knew next to nothing of her heart.

'Tomorrow. Come to the Potions classroom at the end of the night – after nine.' He knew they should fabricate a story, sketch the lies they would provide to his curious colleagues and her sympathetic peers, but he couldn't summon the effort. He would resume his role tomorrow.

Instead he breathed deeply, the contentment spreading through him an entirely new, seductive emotion. For the first time, he cradled her without guilt, knowing that he had no ulterior motive, that this was not a moment of stolen honesty he would later have to deny. She knew the whole score, and though his fears for her life and his child's had increased ten-fold, trepidation was now wed to relief.

He wished that he might stand forever in the darkened entryway, holding Hermione for their rest of their lives, never returning to the world of the battlefield and the classroom.

But whatever gods existed had never granted his wishes, and they weren't going to start now. _When we step outside, it will be as it has always been_.

_Of course. _

A hesitant note entered Snape's thoughts, and he spoke aloud, pulling away from her just enough to meet her eyes in the dim light. 'Keep Potter away from Draco. He is not nearly as subtle as he thinks in following him. In spite of the headmaster's belief that the Draco will not carry through with his plan, he is getting desperate, and in his haste and panic, he is getting dangerous and unpredictable. We cannot afford to lose Potter because he happens to be following Draco and prompts him to make a potentially fatal mistake.'

She inclined her head in acknowledgement, and he brushed a strand of hair away from her face, an expression composed of pure tenderness softening the hard angles of his face, the mobile mouth, the black eyes.

'I cannot say it often, but that does not change the truth. I love you, Hermione. For the days that I have not said it, and the many that I will not be able to in the future, remember. I love you.'

The delighted smile that spread across her face could have outshone the sun, and she placed both hands on his cheeks, savouring the rasp of his day-old beard under her fingers as she gently tugged his face down to meet hers, the brush of her lips granting him what he had denied himself.

'I know,' she whispered as she withdrew.

And the gargoyle moved aside to re-admit them to their world.


	6. Potions and Poisons

Disclaimer: Clearly, Harry Potter and all associated books, movies and paraphernalia do not belong to me. Many thanks to JKRowiling and others for their patience.

Potions and Poisons

_June, 1998_

'Charlie.' A young woman with long brown hair and a sweet smile greeted the second Weasley son as he entered the kitchen behind his youngest brother, and she moved forward gracefully from the sink, hand extended. 'Lavender Brown.'

'So _this_ is your girlfriend that Mum wrote me about,' Charlie grinned, taking her smaller, smoother hand and squeezing it gently in his rough palm. 'Every bit as pretty as she said.'

Lavender laughed gently. 'Knowing your mother's effusive praise, you probably expected another veela.'

'No. Fleur is all very well for a sister-in-law, but one part-veela in the family is plenty,' Charlie replied quickly.

'You already finished visiting your parents?' Ron asked quietly, surprised to see her there.

Lavender shivered faintly, dark eyes haunted. 'It's not safe to go and stay, Ron. I just wanted to make sure they were still fine. They are.' She turned, tray balanced with sugar and milk already in hand. 'Tea?'

'Thank you,' Charlie accepted, pouring a spoonful of sugar into the black liquid. As he reached for the cream, he heard a long sigh, blowing out breath in a careworn sound that reminded him sharply of his father. But as his eyes cut to the door, expecting to find the balding older wizard, they landed only on his younger brother and Charlie felt a peculiar lump settle in his stomach as he truly registered the difference in Ron's countenance. His enthusiastic greeting at the door had covered the changes in the young man. Gone was Charlie's reckless, too-easily-angered sibling, his familiar brother.

The last of six boys, Charlie knew that Ron had always suffered from the need to live up to the high standards set by his brothers. As a result, his brother had often tried too hard, felt he could not possibly be good enough to bear the family name, and been intensely uncomfortable in his own skin for most of his life. His place at Harry Potter's side had, for a time when he was younger, exasperated the condition, and Charlie had often been impatient with Ron's sulks and fits of temper when visiting his family.

But now…like the young leader of the Order, his brother displayed a maturity beyond his years, the stamp of a life tempered by loss too often and too early. The soft light of love that ghosted through his eyes as he gazed at Lavender was not the awkward explosion of the sexual lust and tension of a teenager but an older, wiser and more enduring emotion. The lump in Charlie's stomach expanded, like spoonfuls of porridge sticking together, guilt adding to their weight. Skirmishes had blossomed into full-blown battles, and he had remained away, distance shielding him more effectively than any magic. The world had not remained in stasis, and both the Order and his family bore the mark of the turning times.

'Ron?' he prompted gently as his brother made no move to sit. But Lavender was at Ron's side, pulling him towards the table and guiding him into a chair, the lamp over the chequered tablecloth throwing light into his pained eyes.

'What is it?' she asked quietly.

'Harry. He's still…' Ron's jaw clenched around his words, 'he's still being an arse about Hermione.'

'Harry is not swift to forgive,' Lavender murmured.

'His lack of trust in her is going to get us killed!' Ron snapped. 'We've never been successful in any fight against Voldemort without her. But Moody has him convinced…' he stopped, clenching his fist on the tabletop.

Questions were spinning through Charlie's mind faster than whirling dervishes, each clamouring to be the first off his tongue. He focused himself. The most important thing to learn was…

'Your letters from Hogwarts always said that Hermione and Harry were inseparable. And I've heard Moody praise her intelligence and courage himself. What happened?'

The next word that Ron uttered carried resentment, wonder, anger, bewilderment and resignation rolled together in five letters.

'Snape.'

~888~

_February, 1997_

Sunlight streamed through the gap in the curtains around her bed, slowly pulling Hermione to wakefulness. Her eyes snapped open, her heart jolting a faint surge of adrenaline as she worried about missing her first class, but even as she flipped over to see the glowing numbers on her night-stand clock, she remembered that it was Saturday.

_Ron's b-day_, she saw the note she had scribbled to herself on her calendar, probably at Christmas when she had received it.

Unfortunately, when she sat up to reach for her trunk and retrieve the present tucked there, her stomach roiled violently. She stopped mid-motion, waiting for the nausea to pass, only to feel the pressure rising. Clapping a hand to her mouth as bile rose into her throat, she sprinted for the bathroom she shared with Lavender and Parvati, immensely grateful that both of her roommates were still sleeping soundly as she thrust back the toilet seat and knelt over it, retching violently. It occurred to her dimly as she wrestled with her first round of morning sickness that this was not subtle, that she would have to find a way to mask these mornings where her body rebelled against existence. Hermione didn't fancy the questions that were bound to result if Lavender discovered her condition.

Assuming, of course, that there was something to discover.

The thought of shedding her baby brought on a second bout of nausea. She did not know whether her bondmate had divined her swirling confusion about the options confronting them and their child during her extensive foray into his mind. Nothing he had said indicated that he had eavesdropped on her thoughts or that he, himself, had any solutions to offer.

'_Mum, look!'_ Ten-year-old Hermione had watched a pair of robins painstakingly building a nest just outside her bedroom window. The young witch had been utterly entranced, and every day that spring, the family had watched as the mother robin lay three speckled eggs, faithfully sat on them as her mate brought her food, hatched them and ceaselessly fed the scrawny chicks until they grew into the spitting images of their parents.

'_Isn't life beautiful?'_ Jane Granger had hugged her daughter when the first of the babies had successfully completed a flight around the tree, landing triumphantly to twitter away at its siblings.

Leaning her forehead against the cool porcelain of the sink next to her, Hermione wondered what had brought on this slew of memories – it seemed she rarely went a day without some thought of herself as a child, or a moment with her mother... She sniffled, nose stinging as previously-unnoticed tears made their way down her face.

Abortion? Could she be so cold? She had approached her unexpected pregnancy with the same mindset that she used to tackle her Arithmantic equations – heedless that, occasionally, the fact that two-and-two are four is irrelevant, that sometimes an incalculable number of factors must be examined.

'_I have no issue with helping you get what you desire, young woman. And I very much want you to be sure what that is.' _The medi-witch's words came back to her, and Hermione felt a surge of gratitude for the older woman's gentle guidance, given honestly and without judgment.

_But what, then, will you do?_ Her mind asked quietly as she flushed the toilet and scrubbed her teeth, grateful that her stomach seemed to have settled slightly. _As you will not be abandoning the fight as Severus hoped, and even in desperation it remains true – no mother would ever risk a new-born by keeping it in a war-torn environment if she had any other choice..._

She spat out the last of her toothpaste harshly, glancing at her reflection in the mirror. She winced automatically at what she saw there, studying herself for the first time since Christmas. The last six weeks had been very unkind to her…her eyes widened in horror as she wondered whether she had, unknowingly, already sabotaged any possibility of bringing her child to term. Her own state of health was so precarious…

She was pulling a jumper over her head and yanking up the fly on her faded jeans before she could think about it. She needed to see the medi-witch right away. She had faithfully swallowed each potion the matron had handed to her, but in spite of racing through the many books with their layers of advice on personal hygiene and eating habits, she had failed to enact half the ones she probably should have.

'_Consult the father…_' Another piece of the matron's advice fluttered down from her memory.

Probably a sound thought. He _was_ a Potions master – and she no longer doubted that Snape desired the well-being of their child as ardently as she did. She had felt her bondmate's resignation, his readiness to consign them both to another world. She had known his contentment at the thought of a peaceful existence where he could not follow, lover and child removed from the constant threat of spiralling violence. _'Your safety is my solitary concern.'_ And rather than flee with them, he would stay to stand beside the boy who hated him – the son of a man who had tormented him as a child, godson to a man who had nearly killed him.

He had more than earned the right to discuss this with her as two adults making a very serious decision about their lives. If she expected him, a man with a lifetime's experience of hiding his feelings, to open himself to her, she had to be equally trusting.

She realized with a start that she was smiling in anticipation of seeing him, treasuring the new-found knowledge that glimpsing him in the Great Hall or between classes and watching him teach would no longer bring her pain, but an intense, quiet pride. His obsidian-hard eyes rarely turned to her in public, but when they did, she could hear the echo of his voice: _'For the days I have not said it...I love you.'_

She rose as she finished knotting a shoelace, grabbing a package from her bed-side table. If she hurried, she should be able to consult the nurse and still reach breakfast in time to meet her friends. Today was Ron's birthday, and she wasn't going to miss the delight on his face when he opened her gift of a new bottle of broom polish and sleek, streamlined, silver Quidditch goggles. The past week had brought a painful awareness of how withdrawn she had become from her friends as well as her academics, and a hollow ache had taken up residence in her chest when all except Harry had automatically turned from her at the Gryffindor table – not snubbing her, but in the manner of one granting privacy to a semi-dangerous creature.

She and her friends had been granted fewer and fewer childhood pleasures in the past months, and as Voldemort's star continued to rise, they would be scantier yet. She would find a time to talk to her bondmate, but now she would go the hospital wing for some nutrition potions that would hopefully add some colour to the truly dreadful pallor of her face, and then it was time to start making up for six months neglect of her friendships.

~888~

Blaise Zabini had chosen his seat for the morning carefully, affording him a good view of both the huge oak doors of the Great Hall and the Gryffindor table without betraying his interest in either. It was a Saturday, and he had both his schoolwork and the _Prophet_ to ensure that he had all the time in the world to wait for Hermione Granger, hopefully _sans_ her normal escort of three or more. Granger intrigued him. Potter, his ginger-haired sidekick and various assorted hangers-on most emphatically did not.

Unfortunately, he knew the likelihood of getting Granger alone was limited almost to the point of non-existence. Draco Malfoy was too absorbed by his current task to mark the significantly altered behaviour of the Gryffindor triad that had obsessed him for five years, but the dark skinned boy had not been so distracted. Though he had never before bothered focusing his sharp mind on the politics of Gryffindor House, he had been studying them since September to remedy that lack.

This first term, the group had more-than-doubled in size, the dedication of the sixth-year students to one another in the field strengthened to the point of impenetrability. Potter and the Weasley girl's relationship had clearly been on the rocks, though it had surprised the Slytherin to note that it seemed to have nothing to do with the declining interest of either party. Rather, Potter had been slowly withdrawing himself from all of them after he had returned from...wherever he'd been in October. Zabini frowned. No one who knew was telling. There were rumours that he had been captured in a battle in Diagon Alley – the same battle that had wounded Granger and nearly killed Longbottom – but no one could confirm or deny these reports. When he had come back, the "Chosen One" wore a distant, unseeing stare, a glazed look in the green eyes betraying his obsession with some internal struggle or complex thought.

Granger had become even more of an enigma – pale, occasionally hunched in appearance, practically radiating exhaustion. She and his Head of House seemed to have had some strange altercation during the summer months. The young man would never forget Snape's expression of rage mixed with terror on the day he had viciously banished Granger from Defence Against the Dark Arts. Then had followed the strange incident with Neville Longbottom...and the even more disturbing self-defence against Parkinson's attack. Blaise snorted to himself. The Slytherin had never displayed talent that would set her equal to Granger in any field of magic. The duel on the stairs had been a stupid stunt – borne of desperation and frustration.

Snape had come to the rescue then, as well. Coincidence? Blaise Zabini didn't much believe in random occurrences. Especially in a school governed by magic.

He turned the thought over and carefully set it aside. He would have to observe Granger and Snape in class.

But it was Weasley who had surprised him the most. Keeping his head down and his smile firmly fixed, he had displayed a maturity that Zabini had long scorned the youngest son in the line for lacking. Staunchly standing by both of his friends, personal pain at their growing secretiveness shoved out of the way, he had been aided by Neville in deftly defending both of them from the rustling whispers, questions and speculation.

It seemed his patience and loyalty had paid off at least halfway. Granger – obviously depressed since the beginning of term – had begun to pull herself out of it, and for the past several days she had been noticeably distracted, but the sinking weight of sorrow and anger that warped the very air around her had dissipated.

A flash of titian hair pulled him from his thoughts, and he let his eyes track Ginny Weasley – the first of the quad to put in an appearance today – as she entered the hall. His mouth quirked in disappointment and puzzlement as her expected companions did not follow on her heels, her brown eyes sweeping incisively down the Gryffindor table as she craned her slender neck. She clearly did not find what she was looking for, so she took a seat, leaving plenty of room for her friends to join her and started to reach for toast.

It was the first time since the beginning of term that any of them had arrived at the table alone on a weekend. Maybe he would get lucky...

Less than two minutes later, Harry Potter came through the great doors at a dead run, nearly sending a second-year Ravenclaw flying as he couldn't check his speed and knocked into the boy. Zabini let his paper drop casually. In contrast to the past months of contained emotion that seemed to border on lethargy, Potter's movements now recalled fully the student who had erupted in emotion the previous year, terror rolling off him in almost palpable waves.

Harry skidded to a halt in front of his girlfriend, features dead white. It took only a few gasped whispers for her beautiful, expressive face to hit the same complexion. She started for the door, only to be stopped by Potter's arm. Another hurried exchange, so quiet that every straining ear could catch no more than a buzz, and she sat down again, trembling, her eyes fixed on the exit as Potter sprinted back out.

She did not move to touch her partially-eaten breakfast again.

Fascinating. What in the name of Seven Merlins could be happening this morning? It was hardly nine o'clock and already Potter was acting like the Apocalypse was due today.

Granger entered not another five minutes after that. Her pace was unhurried and she, too, swept the Gryffindor part of the hall with her eyes – but by now, Ginny Weasley was on her feet and rushing forward, the older witch's entrance clearly the signal she had been waiting for. They met in the middle of the hall – Zabini watched Granger's body tense in expectation of the worst – and after no more than a swiftly-delivered sentence, both girls turned and ran.

He sighed, shoved his paper aside and unenthusiastically dug into his pancakes. If the tightly-controlled glances of mutual panic were anything to go by, it looked like his chances to speak to Granger today had just been nullified.

~888~

Hermione skidded to a halt next to her raven-haired best friend in front of the infirmary doors. One hand was already reaching for the handle when Harry's fingers tightened around her wrist.

'We can't go in. No visitors until this afternoon, after he's had time to sleep,' he said, almost mechanically, and Hermione knew he was furiously trying to tame his frustration at the medi-witch's orders.

'What happened?' she panted. 'How is he? Ginny just said..._poisoned?_' Hermione's cinnamon eyes begged the bright green to lie to her, to reply in the negative. _Not Ron. Not Ron. Let _one _of us have been spared disaster this year._

It was easy to underestimate the third member of their trio. He possessed neither Hermione's brain nor Harry's uncanny survival instincts, and he came from a large family of intelligent and powerful witches and wizards. Hermione knew that Ron was still adjusting to his status as "the other one" – the Chosen One, the Brilliant One...and their shadowed, but ever-present, wheel. A boy who could crack jokes on the Quidditch team or when facing fatal disaster. Someone they both desperately needed to lean on. Ron's steadiness was sometimes the only one to keep both of his lime-lighted friends on this side of sanity.

Abruptly faced with the very real prospect of losing him, Hermione alternately cursed and pleaded with every god she'd ever heard of. Not Ron. Harry had always been in danger, and, she knew, always expected to be. It had given him a premature edge, even at eleven, and left him better prepared for adventures like the one in the Riddle house first term. But Ron had never been a target...even in the Department of Mysteries, he'd merely been in the way...

_As was Cedric Diggory. And Sirius Black. And even Harry's mum..._ The list of people who had died for the crime of standing directly between Voldemort and Harry was staggering. She realized that her lungs weren't drawing air, that unshed tears threatened to choke her and that anger followed not far behind.

_It's his _birthday_, for Merlin's sake. Can't fate leave us alone for one magic-forsaken day? _

'Poisoned,' Harry confirmed tersely. Hermione wondered how she had missed them – it had to have been mere minutes between when she had downed the extra nutrition potions the medi-witch had offered her and Harry had arrived with Ron. Chocolate and forest eyes locked on the infirmary door with silent, single-minded intensity.

'Is he going to be all right?' Ginny whispered, tears streaking down her face to carve red tracks in her skin.

'He was still breathing when we got here. I shoved a bezoar in his mouth, and Madam Pomfrey said that cleaned out most of it immediately, but...he was so white,' Harry whispered. Hermione felt her heart contract as Ginny's freckles stood out even more vividly with fear, and she reached out to take the other girl's arm, squeezing gently. Ginny had lost as much as the rest of them this year, and more than most of her fellow students. She was brave, smart and cool in a fight, and Hermione felt the savage claws of guilt sink into her heart as she realized that she had forgotten that, sometimes, Ginny was also just a sixteen-year-old girl. How often had the older witch held her during their first term, stroking her back to comfort her from nightmares both waking and dreaming? The claws flexed. Yet another thing she had forgotten in her consuming problems with her bondmate…Hermione could feel Ginny shaking violently under her fingers and glanced at the brown eyes no longer filled with water, but with a strange numbness.

Hermione could almost hear the mantra running in the younger girl's head, a variation on one they had all adopted as the skirmishes began to verge on full-blown battles. _Swallow it. I don't feel. No grief. No pain. Put it away. There will be a time and a place later...later... _

'Madam Pomfrey is never wrong. She healed both of us during the Chamber incident,' Hermione consoled, finding herself almost believing her own words. 'And your de-boned arm, Harry.' Mention of that never failed to wrangle a smile from everyone – both at the professor who caused the problem and Hermione's crush on said professor at the time. 'If she says Ron's going to be fine, then he's probably already awake and wondering why we haven't brought him any chocolate frogs.'

'You're right,' Harry said, taking a deep breath and blowing it out. He gave her a crooked grin that did not quite manage to reach his eyes, but it was still a better effort than the distant distraction he'd maintained recently. 'Of course. You're pretty much always right. But still...if you'd seen him...'

The jade behind the glasses went as hard as stone as Harry started to pace, more energy and presence than he had shown in months seething from him as he expounded on the theories and fears that had occupied him since the beginning of the year, most of them only half-supported by the evidence they had, the rest half-formulated in his private thoughts.

Unfortunately, Harry Potter's instincts were uncanny, and Hermione now had the important task of derailing any brainwaves the young hero might have about his blond nemesis.

'Katie is _Imperius_'d in Hogsmeade, given a cursed necklace, and told to deliver it to someone here. Presumably me. She fails, touches it, and ends up in St. Mungo's. Apparently, _Snape _can't do anything for her here.' The name rolled off his tongue with its patented snarl, and Hermione restrained her automatic desire to protect her bondmate by reflecting that Snape's pronunciation of _Potter_ sounded very much the same. She doubted either man would find her insight interesting.

'Now, Ron's birthday comes around. He has a few Chocolate Cauldrons with Love Potion in them-'

Hermione stared at him, thoughts of Snape completely dislodged and replaced by horror for her friend's carelessness. Here they stood, wondering if death might claim yet another person dear to all of them, and the whole thing could have been so easily avoided...'I warned you – why didn't you just chuck them?' Her voice was far sharper than it should have been, but Hermione couldn't spare energy to care. If Ron didn't recover-

Harry had the good grace to blush, even as he shot her an annoyed glance. 'I forgot. _I_ knew not to eat them – I just threw them in my trunk and never thought about it again...maybe I would have tried to give one to Dudley over the summer...watching him moon over some girl he's never met – and a witch at that, would be worth being grounded for a month...'

An unexpected, mischievous smile graced the corners of his mouth and Ginny glanced to Hermione hopefully, feeling her heart lurch. She hadn't seen this particular face of Harry Potter since Sirius Black had fallen through the arched veil at the Ministry of Magic. The face of a boy, not a hero or a soldier.

But even as the red-head's black mood lightened suddenly at this evidence of the Harry Potter she had first met and adored, seriousness clouded his face again, the persona of the matured man submerging the teen he should have been once more.

'So Ron and I hurried down to Professor Slughorn for the antidote-'

'Nothing in your potions book?' Hermione asked sharply. For all the miraculous help the strange text was giving Harry – it had been annotated by someone who was clearly a genius in several branches of magic – she had never managed to still the unsettling feeling the book gave her. The spidery handwriting filling almost every margin definitely belonged to a hand she knew – someone so obvious she shouldn't be overlooking them.

Both Ron and Harry had attributed her occasional snide remarks to jealousy that an unknown person had the temerity to be better than she was in an academic arena. She allowed them to continue with that interpretation, although, as school was rapidly slipping down the rungs on her ladder of priorities, anyone observing her closely would know that jealousy of the Half-Blood Prince's useful brewing tips were not cause for her reaction to the text. But it was easier to let them believe in her previously all-consuming academic ambition than struggle to explain her vague feelings.

She reflected that last year, nothing would have stopped her from combing every section of the library until she found an answer, or at least a reference that pointed her in the right direction.

But it wasn't last year. And aside from a few cautious remarks whenever Harry pulled out a spell that cast the previous owner of the book in a dubious light, Hermione had largely put it from her mind. Between Horcruxes and her pregnancy, there simply wasn't the time to follow up on a school kid attempting to be enigmatic.

Harry was glowering at her. 'I didn't stop to take the time and look,' he snapped. 'You know how potions are. He could have needed something that would take days, or even weeks, to brew. Polyjuice and Veritaserum take a month, Felix takes six. How could I know this wouldn't be the same? Plus, I figured someone must stock love potion antidotes in this place, and even if it was going to take only an hour or so to make the potion, asking Slughorn was a lot faster.'

'Probably smart, considering that the halls are packed with a thousand or so horny teenagers, all equipped with their own cauldrons and ingredients to make them,' Ginny acceded with a nod.

'And you didn't think about it,' Hermione injected, smiling. Harry opened his mouth for another retort, stopped, shrugged.

'True. It's not like I spend my free time making potions, unlike some people I know.'

'I can't help it if I don't need _The Idiots Guide to Potion Making_ to create my own,' she teased gently. Almost instantly, she re-focused on the incident at hand, forestalling any rejoinder Harry might have made. 'Then the antidote was poisoned?' she guessed.

'No,' Harry shook his head, shoving his haphazard black locks away from his eyes. 'That was fine. Ron drank it, and it worked perfectly. Then Professor Slughorn made a joke about having a drink to cure the pangs of "disappointed love" and he poured us all some of his mead.'

Harry stilled suddenly, and turned to Hermione, his eyes blazing in his face. She winced inwardly and prepared for the barrage she knew was coming, wishing that the sudden return of life to her friend's features were coming under different circumstances. 'But he said the mead wasn't meant for him,' Harry whispered, his voice suddenly hoarse. 'He said it was a gift he was supposed to pass on to Dumbledore.'

'Like the necklace-' Ginny breathed, her brown eyes snapping with the same fire as her boyfriend's. 'And, _exactly _like the necklace, it didn't reach its intended destination. Harry, what if-' Hermione nearly rounded on the younger witch in fury. The last thing she needed was for Ginny to start connecting Harry's bridges for him.

'The necklace wasn't for me? If it was for Dumbledore? This time, we _know_ the target was the professor-'

A wave of disillusionment drenched Hermione, temporarily turning off her brain as a tide of blistering anger followed on its heels. _Malfoy. The target _was_ Dumbledore._ The headmaster deliberately refused to send the son of Lucius away – a decision that might yet cause the death of one of her best friends, just as it had put Katie Bell in St. Mungo's, where she still languished.

And she had watched Harry sob, believing himself to be the reason for Katie's condition...

_Pawns_, she thought. _All of us. If Ron had died in Slughorn's office, the headmaster would doubtless be showering his family with condolences, an investigation would be set up and reveal nothing...all while deftly harbouring his murderer. _

_As am I,_ she realized bleakly. She _knew_, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that Harry was correct. She _knew_ who had brought this round of fearful pain to Ginny's brown eyes and Harry's renewed and burning obsession.

But if Draco was expelled and Snape did not fulfil his Vow… _Tom has ensured that my death can put us much closer to ending the war_. The ruthless headmaster used himself as much as any of the rest of them…

But Ron had almost died…

Rage and an exhausted sorrow filled Hermione, blinding her with red, and she didn't know how she strangled the scream that fought for release from her throat. Too many options, too many people, too many lives. She couldn't do this, couldn't betray them...

_It is _not_ a betrayal, _she suddenly heard Snape's mental voice resounding in her head. The strength of his speech surprised her – he had to be somewhere within in the nearest few rooms. _Hermione, _this_ is the price you must pay for knowing all that you know. Do you wish Potter dead, too? If he discovers the secrets you're hiding, he will follow Draco and force a confrontation. Draco may be weaker than his father, but he is without Potter's streak of Gryffindor nobility, and willing to kill in battle. If they fight now, Potter will fall. _ Snape's mental voice was mild, but demanded compliance nevertheless. _Would you leave the Order without a means to gaining access to or destroying the Horcruxes? The world needs Harry Potter. _

As it didn't need Ron Weasley. The second sentence went unspoken, but it was there as surely as if it had been uttered. Hermione's stomach knotted furiously and she forcefully swallowed the feeling of physical illness. Dispensable. They always had been. She and Ron and Ginny and Snape...

_Everyone except the Chosen One. That is, after all, the definition of the term,_ she heard her bondmate's tired, understanding voice. '_Keep Potter away from Draco_.' The command echoed even as she felt Snape shut himself away again, leaving her with the cold weight of her duty.

She hated sitting at the grown-up table.

'Dumbledore was a potential target,' she heard herself saying, sliding back into the role of protector. When Harry glared at her, she returned the look with equal heat. 'It's likely,' she conceded, unable to lie outright to her best friend convincingly, 'but don't narrow your field too early. Then you could miss other pertinent information.'

Harry cocked his head in a gesture of acquiescence. '_Assuming_ it's for Dumbledore then, again, the intended murder weapon goes astray,' Harry murmured. He locked eyes with Hermione, the determination and obsession of the previous term springing back abruptly, the brooding demeanour that had characterized him until this morning completely banished. 'Malfoy _is_ up to something, Hermione. I heard him and Snape talking about it before Christmas. They're in this together, and if Malfoy isn't behind both the necklace and the mead, I'll eat my Firebolt.'

He started for the exit. Ginny frowned at his impulsive departure. 'Aren't you going to be here when he wakes up?'

Harry halted, turned his head to look back at the girl he loved and gave her a reassuring smile. A frisson of fear rippled down Hermione's spine. _'They're in this together._' Snape's point was well-taken. Whether or not Draco could kill Professor Dumbledore in cold blood was one consideration. He would, undeniably, shoot to kill Harry if they duelled. Under no circumstances could her irrational friend learn the improbable truth. The green eyes were already painfully aged, so tired behind the anger and fear that drove him to action. 'I will be here when we are allowed to enter,' Harry promised with all the finality of a vault closing in Gringotts. 'But Malfoy isn't going to get anything else into Hogwarts.' His eyes flickered over both of them, anguish surfacing briefly before it was once again buried beneath hardness. 'I've lost too many already to risk his stupidity costing us someone else.'

Snape's sentiment exactly. Except it worked in the reverse. It was Harry they couldn't afford to lose.

The door slammed against the wall yet again as Lavender Brown was rushing in, ashen faced and wild-eyed, and Harry slid past her as both girls hastened to explain that Ron was not – they hoped – in critical condition.

~888~

'Thank you, Severus,' the crowd of students and family heard Madam Pomfrey say inside the ward. All bodies tensed, ready to explode through the door as soon as she granted them permission to see their friend and brother. The sun had set, the last vestiges of twilight fading over the tops of the trees and none of them had been able to stir themselves from the room for the hours following their hasty arrivals, worried that in their absence, they might miss admittance.

As Snape reached the door to survey their worried faces, his familiar sneer settled over his features, black eyes locking on Harry's rebellious green. 'Perhaps Harry Potter should be added to your list of dangerous substances to come in contact with,' he recommended to the nurse in his silkiest voice. 'Like his father, he has an astounding ability to cause pain to those who get too close.'

With that, he was moving through them, leaving a stunned Harry in his wake, the seething loathing that permeated the jade whenever Snape was near held at bay by the verbal beating that so neatly echoed Harry's own thoughts of self-castigation.

Hermione deliberately stepped to the back of the crowd as the Weasleys gave the Slytherin identical frosty glares, pushing past him to enter the hospital. As the last crossed the threshold and the door swung closed, she called his name, stopping him before he made it out of the waiting room.

'Professor Snape?'

He turned slowly, his carefully cultivated look of indifference flickering slightly as he met her eyes, part curious and part-warning. She had never dared approach him openly in the castle and outside of class. They both had parts to play, and he had always been grateful that she was not, as the headmaster had said, the kind of girl to cause scenes.

'Miss Granger?' The lilt in his voice was coldly impersonal.

'I…' She almost instantly reverted to their connection, vividly aware of the number of spying devices the Weasleys had developed, and how broadly they interpreted their rights to use them. _Don't taunt Harry like that._

She could feel him bristling, the edges of his mind becoming spiny at her reprimand. _No?_ he replied challengingly. _Should he walk, as the headmaster wishes, free of the consequences of his actions?_ 'Should he fly blindly through his days, lining his path with the dead and the wounded because he _will not _learn?' came the bitter question.

The image that he bounced back to her was a picture, stripped of the emotion that had darkened his voice. The way their faces had looked to him just moments ago, the crowd including herself, Ginny, Lavender, Fred and George and Harry, pale, haggard and distracted, standing together restlessly, too close, as if their mutual body heat could chase away the chill of fear, waiting for hours to be allowed inside.

_You have spent too much time here. You, Potter, the youngest Weasleys. This friendship has taken its toll on you. See how different you look_. That image was overlaid by a memory of the Sorting, and the round faces of those same peers shining with pure excitement, wonder and mischief shocked her. They were strangers, utterly unknown to the Hermione whose whole brain seemed occupied by war and survival. Had she ever been so childlike?

_Yes. Potter has cost you this. _And much else. Though the words did not make it through their bond, she could feel the weight of them rolling behind, accompanied by snapshot images jumbled together too quickly to make sense, but threaded through with an increasing sense of loss and despair.

I _chose,_ she responded firmly. _It was my choice to follow him. Do not provoke him with spite – we both know he will hate you enough when the time comes._

There was no surprise at this revelation, but an added weight of heaviness that took root somewhere in her abdomen. _I am all-too-aware of that. I also recognize that he is fortunate in his companions – your loyalty will keep his self-loathing from consuming him whole. You are his support. But I…I am his mirror. I am what he can become, and he must not take that road. Which means he _must _come to understand that his actions have consequences and that he cannot lead you recklessly._

_He doesn't. Severus…you have admitted that I have grown up. Let yourself see that Harry has also._

_When he lays waste to everything he touches? _

_Harry is outgrowing his immature impulses, _she countered quietly_, and his fear of the human cost in terms of those dearest to him is almost crippling. He would rather see us survive than avoid the road you've taken. If he believed that walking your path would end the war fastest and help the most people, he would instantly set out upon it – at a dead run._

The pale wizard could see the conviction snapping in the amber-brown fire of his bondmate's eyes and ground his teeth, his love for the young woman in front of him directly at odds with a hatred he had nursed for over twenty years.

But it did more harm than good to loathe Harry Potter. Albus Dumbledore would not always stand between them to sort through their myriad issues. June loomed closer with every passing day. _Be that as it may, the boy still has much to understand. _His faint concession rippled through the back of her mind.

_Is there still time to speak tonight?_

_I do not know. Our contact should be kept at a minimum – there are too many eyes in this castle._

The young woman's hand fluttered over her abdomen again, drawing Snape's glance and a wondering softness to the black that she had never seen before. The sallow features tightened slightly and he nodded.

_He will be all right?_ she asked quietly, her thoughts skipping back to the Gryffindor Keeper.

_He will. He is merely exhausted from the effects of the bezoar. The resources it demands from the body to purge itself will leave him shaky for a few days. _

'Hermione?' Ginny's head poked around the door, saw her closest female friend standing stock-still in front of the Defence teacher. She frowned as they both startled at her presence, as if they had been utterly absorbed by something – but they didn't seem to have been talking.

'Did he light into you too?' the red-head asked, forehead wrinkling as the door snapped closed on Snape's black robes.

'No. No, I was asking him about bezoars and their effectiveness. How's Ron?'

'Come and see for yourself,' Ginny replied. 'Sleeping, mostly, but...'

As Hermione moved past her with the air of one very much preoccupied, Ginny remembered Harry's worry about Snape and their unpleasant teacher's unprofessional attitude toward Hermione during the fall term. She made a mental note to speak to her boyfriend about it. Snape taunting Harry was old news, but they had all been worried about Hermione, who was just emerging from her fragile condition. If he renewed his hostility, she might backslide. Ginny cast a dark glance back at the door their teacher had just vacated. While she had never adopted her brother's and boyfriend's enduring hatred of Snape, she certainly felt no sympathy for the man.

And if he was a threat to Hermione's well-being, it meant he stood in the way of their success. Ginny's jaw tightened as she returned to her brother's bedside. She could think of several ways to make his classes extremely...disagreeable...if he proved to be a problem...

~888~

'But you said Slughorn had been planning to give that bottle to Dumbledore for Christmas,' Ginny was saying one more time, having latched onto Harry's theme from their morning talk. 'So the poisoner could have just as easily been after Dumbledore.'

_Which he was. Desperate indeed, when anyone who'd ever spent five minutes with the man would know..._ 'Then the poisoner didn't know Slughorn very well,' Hermione said softly, careful to steer clear of acknowledging any of the names thrown out during the discussion. 'Anyone who knew Slughorn would have known there was a good chance he'd keep something that tasty for himself.'

'Er-my-nee?' Ron's voice croaked from the bed, but his eyes didn't open, even as Lavender squeezed his fingers and the ward went still, eyes straining with the sudden intensity of their focus.

An incomprehensible mutter, his brow relaxed, and his heavy breathing indicated a return to sleep. Lavender's dark eyes filled with disappointment as he slipped back into unconsciousness.

The door banged open, and all of them jumped. Hagrid came striding into the ward, his warm black eyes fixed furiously on the hospital bed. 'Bin in the Forest all day! Aragog's worse, I bin readin' to him – didn' get up ter dinner till jus' now an' then Professor Sprout told me abou' Ron! How is he?'

Harry jumped quickly to reassure him, reading the tension practically radiating from the half-giant. 'Not bad. They say he'll be okay.'

Hagrid gazed down at the boy sadly as the twins and Ginny hurriedly shoved their chairs backwards to accommodate his bulk next to the white bed. 'I don' believe this...jus' don' believe it. Look at him lyin' there...who'd want ter hurt him, eh?'

As his gaze travelled first to her and then lingered on Harry, Hermione felt her heart squeeze painfully. The teachers of Hogwarts had watched them grow, fostered their brilliance, disciplined their misbehaviour. But Hagrid had sheltered the three of them from storms of rain and tears, prejudice and danger. He loved them as dearly as any parent, and watching his honest, worried face now as he looked over Ron tore at her.

'That's just what we were discussing,' Harry said quietly. 'We don't know.'

'Someone couldn' have a grudge against the Gryffindor Quidditch team, could they? Firs' Katie, now Ron...' Hermione stifled a smile. Only Hagrid...but then again...her smile faded as she reflected that their lives would be very much easier now if the cause were indeed something so inane as the air sport.

'I can't see anyone trying to bump off a Quidditch team,' George dismissed it.

'Wood might've done the Slytherin's if he could've got away with it,' Fred pitched in reflectively.

Hermione almost rolled her eyes in disbelief. Boys and Quidditch. Was Snape the only member of the whole gender who _wasn't_ obsessed with the game?

'Well, I don't think it's Quidditch,' she ventured, voicing what Harry had already started to piece together, hoping that her words might urge him to caution. They never had before, but there was no denying that seeing Ron double up as poison ripped through his body had affected a change in her friend. Whether for good or ill remained to be seen. The driven look that had returned to his eyes was the gleam of the predator. 'But I do think there's a connection between the attacks.'

'How d'you work that out?' Fred asked, frowning.

'Well, for one thing, they both ought to have been fatal-' _attempted warning one_ – 'and weren't, although that was pure luck. And for another, neither the poison nor the necklace seems to have reached the person who was supposed to be killed.' She looked directly across Ron's bed into the haunted eyes hidden behind perfectly round rims to drive her point home. 'Of course, that makes the person behind this even more dangerous in a way, because they don't seem to care how many people they finish off before they actually reach their victim.'

The twins cocked their heads as if considering her logic, Harry's expression of grim determination didn't shift and Ginny's eyes darted between the best friends as she weighed what Hermione had said.

But before anyone could speak, the older Weasleys tore in, Molly reaching out to embrace Harry fiercely. 'Dumbledore's told us how you saved him with the bezoar. Oh Harry, what can we say? You saved Ginny...' her daughter's face darkened at the memory – Ginny hated being remembered as a child that had to be rescued, 'you saved Arthur...now you've saved Ron...'

Sorrow flared brightly in Harry's eyes. _If it weren't for me, none of them would have been in that position in the first place. _'Don't be...I didn't...' he stammered as Molly crushed him against her shoulder.

'Half our family does seem to owe you our lives, now I stop and think about it,' Mr. Weasley said, his voice tight with the stress of the day and the relief of not having lost his son. 'Well, all I can say is that it was a lucky day for the Weasleys when Ron decided to sit in your compartment on the Hogwarts Express, Harry.'

A smothering, suffocating feeling welled in the young man, and the dark-haired wizard almost couldn't bear the praise, or the nods of completely serious agreement coming from the ever-mischievous twins, or Ginny's bright eyes. His gaze sought the girl who had balanced him for the past five and a half years and he clutched at her familiar features to retain his sanity.

In her eyes he saw the terrible certainty of understanding, and knew that she knew what he was thinking – that it had been precisely the opposite. That the _worst _luck of their lives had come on the day that Ron had so quickly jumped to Harry's defence against Draco Malfoy and his bully boys. That if Ron had chosen a compartment with Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnegan or even Neville Longbottom, the enormous risk to their family would have practically vanished.

To have them _thanking_ him for an event caused solely by his own careless stupidity...

'Only six visitors,' Madam Pomfrey emerged from her office to announce. It was hastily agreed that Hagrid, Hermione and Harry would leave Ron to his siblings, parents and girlfriend, and they beat their retreat in the still awkward silence after the elder Weasleys' profuse expressions of gratitude.

They started back towards Gryffindor Tower, Hermione grateful for the silence that had absorbed Harry. She wasn't interested in playing verbal keep-away.

'It's terrible,' Hagrid murmured sadly as they walked through the quiet halls. 'All this new security, an' kids are still gettin' hurt...Dumbledore's worried sick...he don' say much, but I can tell...'

Hermione glanced at him. The headmaster had made it abundantly clear three nights ago that the only people who knew the true score of the distressing events taking place in Hogwarts were the four of them. Still...it would probably do well to keep all their evasions in line with one another's stories. 'Hasn't he got any ideas at all, Hagrid?' she fished cautiously.

'I 'spect he's got hundreds of ideas, brain like his,' came the typical, stoic reply. Hermione felt her mind ease slightly. 'But he doesn't know who sent that necklace nor put poison in that wine, or they'd've been caught, wouldn' they?' _We can only wish_, Hermione thought savagely, feeling guilt entrench once more, burying itself in her heart. _Malfoy stays, in spite of the risk._

'Wha' worries me is how long can Hogwarts stay open if kids are bein' attacked. Chamber o' Secrets all over again, isn' it? There'll be panic, more parents takin' their kids outta school, an' nex' thing yeh know the Board o' Governors'll be talkin' about shuttin' us up fer good.'

_And as we're going to be closed next year anyway, what difference does a few months make?_ Hermione thought bitterly. But she knew her role as bookworm, and filled her next words with a hearty dose of horrified shock. 'Surely not?'

'Gotta see it from their point o' view,' Hagrid said wisely, as if imparting information Hermione hadn't long chewed over. She knew what her parents would have done if they'd had any indication of what had occurred to her in the past term. 'I mean, it's always bin a bit of a risk sendin' a kid ter Hogwarts, hasn' it? Yer expect accidents, don' yeh, with hundreds of under-age wizards all locked up tergether, but attempted murder, tha's diff'rent-' _One would hope_, Hermione couldn't censor the thought. ''S no wonder Dumbledore's angry with Sn-'

Both students stopped dead at this customary slip of Hagrid's tongue, Harry's bright green eyes shining with a hard excitement, Hermione's heart growing heavier as dread sank all the way through her. What had the gamekeeper overheard? His attitude towards her seemed unchanged, but that didn't mean that he hadn't heard something incriminating about her bondmate.

Harry's reaction was as predictable as snow in January. 'What? Dumbledore's angry with Snape?'

'I never said tha',' Hagrid replied swiftly, clearly trying to back away as swiftly as possible. 'Look at the time, it's gettin' on fer-'

'Hagrid, why is Dumbledore angry with Snape?' Harry's voice had risen with the blazing in his eyes, and both Hermione and the half-giant glanced quickly down the halls, ensuring that no one was within earshot.

'Shh,' Hagrid hushed fiercely. 'Don' shout stuff like that, Harry, d'you wan' me ter lose me job? Mind, I don't supposed you'd care, would yeh, not now you've given up Care of Mag-'

'Don't try and make me feel guilty, it won't work,' Harry countered firmly, the man he was growing into stepping firmly to the fore, submerging the younger Harry Potter who was Hagrid's friend. 'What's Snape done?'

_No matter how old or young you get, it's always about Snape, isn't it?_ Hermione quashed the resentment before it could find vocal expression, but she couldn't halt her train of thought. _It's never about the fact that Dumbledore expects everyone to sacrifice all they have for his goals and tries to manage everyone's lives for them. For the love of Merlin, he manipulated you, too, Harry, for all that time about that prophecy and still...if there's an argument, it must be _Snape's_ fault..._ She shook away the emotion-tainted rant. In all fairness, Snape shared the headmaster's priorities, as did she, and knowing her bondmate's volatility – this year more so than ever – a fight probably _had_ been at the younger wizard's instigation.

'Well – I jus' heard Snape sayin' Dumbledore took too much fer granted an' maybe he – Snape – didn' wan' ter do it anymore-'

'Do what?'

'I dunno, Harry, it sounded like Snape was feelin' a bit overworked, tha's all – anyway, Dumbledore told him flat out he'd agreed ter do it an' that was all there was to it. Pretty firm with him.'

Hermione wondered when this conversation had taken place. Before or after the meeting that had irreversibly altered the course of her own life? Had they been arguing about her? Or maybe about the task that Dumbledore had asked Snape to perform? She knew now why her bondmate had resisted telling her the truth – and she couldn't blame him. How much had she hidden from her parents, not wanting to worry them and unwilling to surrender her magical education?

She filed away Hagrid's information as something to run by the headmaster and her lover – along with the fact that they should clearly limit their conversations to the aging man's circular tower. Every portrait in Hogwarts could, collectively, keep a secret better than the gamekeeper. Including Sir Cadogen and the Fat Lady.

'All the Heads o' House were asked ter look inter that necklace business-' Hagrid was saying hastily.

'Yeah, but Dumbledore's not having rows with the rest of them, is he?' Harry murmured, giving her a swift glance that was clearly supposed to convey something. Hermione arched an eyebrow. She certainly wasn't going to help him advance his disturbingly correct theories.

'Look,' Hagrid was responding in kind, giving Harry a disappointed look that the warm black eyes had never turned on the boy hero before. 'I know what yeh're like abou' Snape, Harry, an' I don' want yeh ter go readin' more inter this than there is...'

A skeletal figure was approaching behind the broad back. 'Look out,' Hermione hissed swiftly.

The wizened caretaker of Hogwarts castle shuffled forward, a look of delight on his face. A glance that only grew more pronounced as he glared at two of his least favourite students – the pair that had managed to permanently disable Dolores Umbridge the year before. A swift spat with Hagrid, defending their right to be out and about, just beginning to wind up, the two students quickly ducked away, sliding through a tapestry and up a ramp that would deposit them fifty feet from the Fat Lady.

Much to Hermione's dismay, Harry took up his preferred seat in a worn red armchair, staring into the shifting flames in a position that she had long since recognized as Harry's posture of absorbed thought.

'It's late,' she ventured hesitantly. A quick glance at the common room clock told her that it was moving towards midnight. 'We should probably get some sleep.' Her bondmate's well-developed sense of caution seemed to preclude their meeting tonight and the delay piled worry on top of her almost overwhelming anxiety after Ron's poisoning.

'Go if you want to,' Harry finally muttered in reply, a hand vaguely waving at the staircase.

'Harry-'

'I've _got_ to figure out how this ties together,' her friend snapped aggressively, glaring at her for interrupting his concentration. 'Malfoy, Snape...maybe these Horcruxes that Dumbledore is teaching me about. Ron could have _died_ today, Hermione. The person drinking that mead was definitely meant to.' Fingers rubbed over his scar in frustration, anger, bitterness and fear running through his eyes. 'Dumbledore won't take me seriously about a threat that is obviously inside Hogwarts. What if Malfoy tries again tomorrow? What if it's you next? Or Ginny? How can I sleep when I'm the only one who thinks this is a real problem?'

'How will you solve it or anything else when you're sleep-deprived?' she shot back firmly. 'Ron _didn't_ die, Harry. He's in the hospital wing, getting better, surrounded by people who love him. You can continue worrying in the morning.'

Green eyes glowered at her, and Hermione folded her arms, leaning against the wooden banister and making it clear that she was waiting for him. He had turned back to the fire, ready to out-wait her, when Hermione felt someone behind her on the staircase, and turned just in time to see Cormac McLaggen blow past without even glancing down, his bulky form headed straight for Harry.

'There you are, Potter!' The Seeker jumped, his wand shooting from his pocket so fast it seemed he had Summoned it to him. McLaggen ignored it. 'I've been waiting for you to come back.'

Harry cut her a beseeching look, and Hermione nearly snorted at the irony. Twenty seconds ago he had been pleased to brood in front of the flames, and now he wanted a way out? She shook her head sweetly, thanking the luck that had sent the arrogant boy tumbling down the stairs. Harry was not in a talkative mood right now, and she could think of no better way to encourage him to go to sleep than dodging McLaggen's ever-running mouth.

Flashing her best friend a bright smile behind McLaggen's back, she mounted the stairs.


	7. A Life Decided

Disclaimer: Clearly, Harry Potter and all associated books, movies and paraphernalia do not belong to me. Many thanks to JKRowiling and others for their patience.

A Life Decided

_June, 1998_

From his position against the wall just inside the kitchen door, Charlie Weasley watched various members of the highest echelon of the Order of the Phoenix entering the room, taking places long since established by the rift that had occurred between them: Harry Potter's staunch supporters lining the right side of the formal cherry-wood table, polished to a shine, Minerva McGonagall's streaming to the left.

The small pocket that comprised the neutral camp took up their residence at the foot. Given the details that his youngest brother had supplied, the dragon tamer was not surprised to see his parents, sister and Ron's feminine but surprisingly durable girlfriend, Lavender, squeeze together in that space. Nor did he miss the look of compounded pain and resentment that flashed across bright green eyes as the young saviour took his place at the head, gaze locked steadily on Ginny.

Bending their heads together on Harry's side, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Nymphadora Tonks and Mad-Eye Moody were murmuring furiously, the heavy cane pounding the ancient floor, creaks emphasizing his unheard exclamations. Farther down on that side, Remus Lupin sat, poring over notes and cross-referencing them with a tome exuding dust with the werewolf's every exhale. Every so often, his gentle hazel eyes would flicker up to peruse those on the opposite side of two and a half feet of table, sorrow gracing the green-brown. Though Charlie did not know him well, he could see that the in-fighting had taken its toll on the middle-aged wizard.

The direction of Lupin's glance brought the second Weasley son's eyes to his former professor's line up. The older wizard's focus had been the apparent catalyst for the disunity now threatening the only army standing between Voldemort and Britain: Hermione Granger. Charlie had seen her little in the two days since his arrival, but even after encountering his much-matured youngest brother and the hard-eyed Harry, he had not been able to contain his shock. The bushy-haired, eagerly energetic, ever-informed girl he vaguely recalled from a few visits home had been erased as thoroughly as if she had never existed. In her place stood a woman of iron will and seething power, bent under the weight of the secrets that had destroyed her friendship with the Boy-Who-Lived. Her eyes were bright, but the shadows underneath told a story of insomnia, her frame – never robust – slender and fit for duelling. She still seemed to possess a formidable mind that she was plumbing to its depths, if her reading material were anything to go by, but _Hogwarts, A History _was no longer the thickest volume gracing her table.

She was deep in conversation with Fred. He had been surprised to hear that the twins had stepped to Hermione's defence. They had always seemed closer to Harry, who had, after all, funded Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. But they had adamantly protested Hermione's sentence of house arrest and the obsessive desire possessed by the majority of Harry's half to kill Severus Snape. The spy had continued supplying them with much-needed information: killing him would be the knot in their own noose.

With the division so rigidly enforced by the barren table that seemed to represent the gaping chasm between the two sides, Charlie felt as if he were watching warring parties meet uneasily to form a truce, instead of a group supposedly united against a greater foe. The apprehension that had taken root his first night in Grimmauld Place blossomed abruptly. If this was the state of the Order, he would take his force back to Romania. He had not asked them to fight and die for defeat – and these witches and wizards would be effortless to destroy.

The murmurs died as McGonagall and Ron entered, the latter shooting Hermione a quick smile before taking his required seat on Harry's right. The would-be Headmistress of Hogwarts seated herself next to the young witch as Harry nodded politely to the boy who had been his second since his first ride on the Hogwarts Express.

Silence fell, thicker than molasses dripping in January and uncomfortable enough that Charlie could feel his skin began to itch, the oppressive air sinking through them. Even his mother's efficient dispatch of butterbeer, water and wine didn't loosen the mood.

'Well, Minerva, are we going to get started?' Moody growled.

McGonagall returned his glower with a cool look in her dark blue eyes. 'No, Alastor, we are not. We are awaiting one more person.'

Foreheads furrowed in frowns on the Auror's side of the table, ugly glances traded between the three and their compatriots as Harry stiffened infinitesimally in his chair. But no one broke the silence.

Charlie didn't have time to guess who this guest was. The door opened a final time, and in came a swatch of black, moving so swiftly that the colour was all that registered for a first impression.

'Minerva.' The stressed, low voice of Severus Snape greeted one half of the Heads of the Order. She extended her hand, worry etched in the drawn lines around her mouth as he took it briefly.

'Severus. You are well?'

'Enough,' came his brusque reply. He tilted his head to the elder Weasleys and, to their second son's surprise, also at his brother ensconced next to Harry. Charlie didn't know which was more out of character: Snape's almost respectful acknowledgement of Ron, or the Gryffindor's genuinely friendly nod in response.

His final stop was the witch seated to Minerva's left. The dark wizard halted next to Hermione, who had risen to meet him, and Charlie could see a frisson of releasing tension as Snape's fingertips brushed her elbow, the faint hum of Elemental Magic greeting their lovers eagerly after a long absence. The thin lips of Dumbledore's murderer came down to meet the crown of her untamed head, face half-buried in the wild hair, a single breath relaxing the taut shoulders.

If the newcomer was surprised by their public display, the intensely uncomfortable looks from those sitting across from the spy and his bondmate answered the question of why – an unassailable demonstration of Snape's place within the Order for those who continued to doubt.

'Severus, Charlie Weasley has brought his force to join us,' Hermione said quietly, stepping back from her former teacher.

The vitriolic man straightened, turning decisively to stare Charlie in the face, his own sculpted features as impassive now as when Charlie had sat at the back of his dungeon classroom.

The copper-haired wizard hesitated, uncertain of the rules defining their encounter – was he reporting to a superior or explaining to a subordinate? Snape took the decision from him by speaking, answering his questions.

'We are grateful for the help you have provided. There are certain sections of the Dark Lord's forces that the dragon riders should focus on in the impending battle. I will be ready to provide you with details after this meeting.'

Charlie nodded, and before he knew it, his burn-and-wind-roughened hand had come up to meet the pale wizard's slender one, squeezing in an instinctive gesture of camaraderie, unknowingly cementing his place with his twin brothers.

'I'll await your convenience, sir.'

'Excellent. Severus, Mr. Weasley, if you would seat yourselves...' McGonagall's hand fluttered in a way entirely reminiscent of the late headmaster, managing to take in the whole table and nevertheless indicate the precise places they should sit at the same time. Severus took his chair on the other side of Hermione – Fred had vacated the seat when the spy had arrived – and Charlie occupied the last open space between George and his father.

'This meeting has been called because we have finally received an affirmative answer from our contacts amongst the Goblins. At least some of them wish to join the war on the side of the Order, provided we can grant them certain assurances.' The crisp voice that so many of them had heard dryly giving instruction in Transfiguration seemed strangely suited to this task as well as she outlined what the Goblins had written, producing a scroll covered in curly handwriting for general perusal. The members of the table leaned in, reading, pointing, disagreeing and wrangling over whether they could accept these new allies.

~888~

_February, 1997_

'What is the price for one soul, Albus? How high is Draco Malfoy's worth allowed to climb?' The aging wizard rubbed at weary eyes as his wife regarded him from behind her strictly-square frames.

He could hear the voice of their younger colleague echoing from the stones around them. He had quarrelled with the Defence professor just this afternoon...

'You_ may be resigned to your death,' Dumbledore had heard the harshness covering the genuine pain, but Snape used it ruthlessly nevertheless, 'but our students have had no such luxury. We have suffered two near-fatalities, and this is nothing like the Chamber of Secrets. We _know_ who the culprit is and what we can do about it. What will happen, Headmaster, if someone actually dies?' _

'My love, I beg you, _try_ to understand,' he said, surprised by the sudden hoarseness in his voice. 'The best thing for Britain and Hogwarts is the death of Tom Riddle, as fast as possible. With this mad desire to punish Lucius for the lost prophecy, he has handed us exactly the right key to bring it about. Should I have refused? If the Ministry falls and Riddle succeeds in taking over Great Britain, how many children will die? More than the handful who are at risk from Draco now.'

'Even one lost life is too much,' McGonagall whispered, unable to stop the thoughts that followed. _And these are faces I know, children I treasure...what is an unknown future compared to the present?_

She vividly recalled Pomona Sprout's racking tears after her interview with the Diggorys following Cedric's murder.

'_What do you say?' The down-to-earth witch was weeping uncontrollably in one of her greenhouses, oblivious for once to the living things that had occupied her whole world as her body shuddered with sobs. 'What can you tell a mother who has seen her son put in the ground? Minerva...we who have never borne children, who cannot understand the loss, what can _we_ say?'_

'Yes. It is. I am exceedingly grateful for the turn of fate that has saved both Ron Weasley and Katie Bell.'

He leaned forward, reaching across his desk to capture her hand as abruptly-cold fingers wrapped around her teacup. 'It was you who once reminded me that it falls to a leader to do what must be done – however unpleasant or painful the task. You were correct, as you so often are. Allowing Draco to stay screams against every instinct I possess for taking care of the lives entrusted to us, but turning him away spells disaster for many others.'

'I wish I could understand,' she replied slowly, eyes glossed with pain. 'But all I can see is Molly Weasley's white face, and I don't think I ever will.'

A hard look arrested his features as he squeezed her hand so hard it pinched and answered. 'I sincerely hope you never do. But whatever else comes to pass...help me with this, Minerva.'

A sad smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. 'Have I ever refused you?'

~888~

'Miss Granger! My desk, please,' Professor McGonagall called to her prize pupil over the rustling of papers and scrapting of metal chairs on stone floors that accompanied the end of her class. Harry shot her a concerned look, and Lavender fell back to join him, waving Parvati through the door with Seamus and Dean.

Since Pansy's attack only a few days ago and Ron's poisoning on Saturday, Harry had been more determined than ever _not _to let Hermione out of his sight. Whatever chastisement the Slytherin had received from her Head of House had not quelled her murderous looks in the other witch's direction, nor did her detentions seem to be having any deterring effects on her hatred.

'We'll be outside,' Harry murmured.

'Thanks,' she replied. A few weeks ago, she would have snapped irritably that she was perfectly capable of finding the Great Hall on her own. But the scale of Parkinson's violence had frightened her. The other girl had been duelling to kill – and there were no guarantees that she wouldn't try again. 'I'll try to make it quick.'

The room emptied and Hermione was standing in front of her Head of House. 'Yes, Professor?'

'On Friday evening, you mentioned the need for some extra time on that advanced project,' she said carefully. Hermione cocked her head, scrambling for the pieces of her previous Friday...

Snape. Dumbledore. The conversation that had turned her world a full one-hundred-eighty degrees. She shot her teacher a puzzled glance. There had been absolutely no discussion of an advanced project...

'The one the headmaster suggested,' Professor McGonagall prompted blandly.

It clicked. 'Oh!' Hermione said, and then blushed faintly at her slowness. 'Yes, Professor, that would be very helpful.'

'Then I'll expect you in my office this evening after dinner.'

'Yes, ma'am. Thank you.' Hermione offered the older witch a smile, which McGonagall returned.

'Miss Granger,' she called as her student turned away. 'Be careful,' came the quiet, affectionate warning. 'Miss Parkinson has by no means been cowed by her punishments, and she is not the only one who would wish you harm. The entire faculty is on alert, but the students outnumber us twenty-to-one. Until you bring your power under control, stay close to your friends.'

'I will,' Hermione promised.

~888~

Harry and Neville walked Hermione to the Transfiguration professor's office that evening, and the raven-haired Gryffindor went so far as to ask Professor McGonagall when Hermione would be done.

'Don't you think you're a bit young to be playing dad?' Hermione asked, but there was no sourness in her voice. Harry glanced down at her without a trace of humour in his green eyes.

'I fully agree with Mr. Potter's concern,' McGonagall cut in. 'And I am grateful for his vigilance. But it is unnecessary,' she assured the young wizard. 'I will personally see Miss Granger back to Gryffindor Tower.' She peered over her glasses at the messy-haired boy. 'I was also under the impression that you had an appointment with the headmaster this evening, Potter.' Harry nodded the affirmative and McGonagall waved them both away. With that, Hermione was bundled inside and her two friends were left to return to their lives.

'Will we regularly meet here instead of the Headmaster's Office?' Hermione asked curiously as she shed her books onto a stuffed armchair.

'No. Tonight, of course, Potter has his attention. But although Albus wishes you to train independently, you won't be meeting in his office for that, either. A specific type of place seems to be called for, with very precise conditions. He thinks he may be close to unearthing yet one more of this castle's secrets that will help you two tame these unexpected gifts.' Hermione watched her professor glide behind her desk and tap the door woven into the large floor-to-ceiling tapestry hanging there. The Prefect couldn't quite find surprise when the cloth shimmered and became a solid, three-dimensional door. Secrets were the warp and weft of the school. Having seen the headmaster's private sitting room so nicely concealed from the public eye made her suspect that each teacher would have such a space, a place where a few valuable items were secure from student's prying eyes and curious fingers.

'This arrangement is just for today,' McGonagall added, turning the knob. 'As the conversation you're about to have is one that I have little doubt you wish to keep absolutely private.'

'Conversation? I thought-'

'In the future, Miss Granger, you will practice. I'm sure that I don't need to lecture you on the importance of your power. But there are some subjects that will not keep for later.' The beech swung inwards, revealing a tall silhouette half-lit by the already-roaring fire. Snape glanced up at their entrance, and the older witch saw the softening of his severe visage when his eyes settled on Hermione.

Rough though the weekend had proven to be, her magic fairly hummed with contentment, which in turn caused wind and water to purr pleasantly through his veins. It was a welcome change from the pins-and-needles he'd been suffering since turning her out of his office.

'Professor Snape,' she greeted him formally as her Head of House backed out, pulling the door closed behind her. The _click _of the latch sounded like the shot of a starter pistol. They moved together, stopping just short of touching. She could sense his hesitation, but was unsure as to the cause. Finally he lifted his hands to the level of her abdomen and clumsily articulated:

'Our...your...can I touch it?'

Hermione smiled at the full-force return of the awkwardness that was so at odds with his demeanour in every other setting. Wordlessly, she took one hand in hers and pressed it to her mostly-flat belly, treasuring the rare intimacy and the curious, searching look on his face as he felt no more than the movement of her breathing under his palm. 'We won't feel it moving for awhile yet.' Her light-heartedness failed abruptly, and, sensing her change of mood, he withdrew, gesturing for her to seat herself and drink the tea steaming in two cups on the end table.

'If we're going to keep it,' she continued firmly.

'You're certainly wasting no time on pleasantries,' he said dryly, recovering his aplomb and joining her on the cosy couch. He watched her adding a spoonful of sugar to her tea and the detail struck him even as he catalogued it. Before this instant, he would not have been able to say how his bondmate took her tea.

'You've never impressed me as the kind of man who enjoys them,' she replied in kind, passing him his milk-whitened cup. 'I've always imagined that small-talk ranks directly below 'foolish wand-waving' and 'silly incantations' on your list of despised follies.'

'Correct,' he agreed. He blew needlessly on the cup before bringing it to his lips. Her large eyes followed the movement until he saw realization registering in the brown orbs. He was determined to let her speak first. One thing Severus Snape prided himself on was his learning curve. His attempts at decision making in their relationship had already done Merlin-only-knew-how-much damage. He had spent twenty years presenting three entirely different faces to a cross-section of humanity. Surely it would be possible to restrain his desire to dictate what they should be doing now. To sit back and have an adult conversation.

Even as the words crossed his brain, he had to acknowledge to himself that 'adult conversation' was something he had had very little of in his life. Dumbledore and the Dark Lord always _wanted _something, and any chat with them was a convoluted pattern of checks, balances and doubling back to ensure he hadn't given anything away unintentionally. With his Hogwarts colleagues, talk was almost always kept on the polite, professional level and with the Death Eaters...

Conversations happened between friends and partners. Having very few of the former and never having had the latter, this skill was one he had almost never practiced.

'Well,' she said, swallowing nervously as she balanced her cup on her knee, 'I would rather not get rid of it. But I am at a total loss as to _how_ to keep it, so...so abortion has to remain on my list of options.' She cast him an anxious glance, but her voice remained steady as she continued. 'I believe I understand why it is that you made the choices you did last term. I can and do respect and forgive your need not to tell me. We are soldiers and this is a war. You did what was, objectively, best for the Order, for Harry and – had I done what you thought and hoped I would – for me. However, we both know now that I am not going to go into hiding with the child. My service to the Order of the Phoenix outweighs every other potential commitment I could have. Harry needs all of us – that Ron's poisoning has wrought such a change in him instantly is merely the latest proof of this undeniable truth. I cannot absent myself at this juncture for _any_ reason.

'In light of this, what do you propose doing? Your current schedule doesn't allow for the presence of a baby in your world, and when...when you...fulfil-' pain flashed in both pairs of eyes '-Professor Dumbledore's request, you will be absolutely incapable of taking care of an infant, leaving our child without a mother or father for full-time care.'

Her hands came up, fingers rising with each point she made. 'The most important hurdle is the safety of the child once it is born. You promised the Dark Lord that he could have it. Whether or not you intend to follow through, at some point, he'll come knocking for it. I know that you acted to protect me and Harry – but I will not carry and give birth to an innocent that will later be handed to a monster because it buys me a few months' respite from the Death Eaters. If I give birth, I _have_ to know that my child has the same chances in life that everyone gets – not the distorted view of a war environment.'

'But you are unwilling to go to ground with the child?' he pressed quietly.

'I cannot. No more than you can tell the headmaster that you don't feel like performing the duties he has laid before you. If I were to vanish on Harry, without explanation...' she trailed off and shook her head, intelligent eyes darkening with inner demons. 'You said it in the hospital. We are his support. Would you remove one of the strongest pillars?'

'In a heartbeat,' he answered without editing the words, and turned his face from her fiercely inquisitive gaze, embarrassed by his revelation. Still, she could sense his thoughts anyway and, in for a penny..._Since that pillar is you,_ he added mentally. It was much easier to think than to say such things aloud.

Warmth suffused her despite his averted gaze, and she allowed her first thoughts to slide past her lips. 'I wish I could. I wish _we_ could. I've been fantasizing for three days about the two of us simply leaving. Leaving Hogwarts, and Britain, finding a place where 'Voldemort' is nothing but weird name in a two-bit column in a newspaper, or, better yet, not mentioned at all.'

'It is unlike you to be so...unrealistic,' he said out loud, turning to face her with arched eyebrows. But she felt a surge of longing for the scene her words had painted.

'Isn't it?' she said, her lips quirking in an ironic grin. 'But I desperately want to see this child – to hold it, and coo over it, and name it, and watch it learn to walk-' Hermione felt tears suddenly pooling in her eyes and silenced herself before the bubble in her throat expanded to eclipse speech all together.

A hand crept over hers, long fingers threading through her slender ones and squeezing. Her bondmate cleared his throat, and when she lifted her slightly reddened eyes, it was to see an expression she had never witnessed before: total affection. The empathy he had buried as a child shaved years off the cold face now. 'I have never thought of myself as the paternal type,' he admitted. 'But since Christmas, I, too, have been wishing that life might be...different. That I could see a son or a daughter walking through these halls, bursting with the excitement of all they learn, the people they meet.'

The hand tightened, Flamma-fanned heat pulsing through their skin. 'But this is not the life we have chosen. So we are left to take a more painful road. I am...relieved...that you wish to keep the baby.' She could tell he was choosing his words carefully. 'If you were to abort, the danger to both of us would increase substantially.' At her inquisitive look, he felt his jaw lock. Her insatiable need to know – he didn't want to spell out the Dark Lord's ugliness for her. Her trip through the corridors of his mind should have provided more-than-adequate coverage.

'If you terminate the pregnancy, I predict that one of two things will occur,' he began reluctantly, voice deliberately flat as he rose from the couch, unwilling to taint her with his touch while enumerating his master's madness'. 'The first is that the Dark Lord will capture you, force us to copulate until you catch again and then execute me for my previous failure. This would have the added disadvantage of leaving you squarely in the hands of the enemy – a scenario which will likely result in the deaths of Potter and Weasley as they attempt to rescue you. Or my master could decide that such defiance on your part and weakness on mine makes you uncontrollable. In this case he would abandon this plan, hunt you and your friends down immediately, order me to kill the headmaster now, and then hand me directly over to someone like Bellatrix Lestrange, making me _envy_ the fate of the Longbottoms.'

Hermione blinked. Even _with _her first-hand experience of his waterfall of memories, Voldemort's sheer cruelty never ceased to astound her. Kill his spy in the Order? For an unknown quantity, an unborn baby?

'And the secret could not be kept, could it?' she asked with quiet resignation.

'Not indefinitely, no. A further complication in such a scenario is our Bond itself. Its purpose is procreation. Your pregnancy has fulfilled that compulsion, and we have been able to live our lives without the need to...' she could tell he was stumbling to find the right expression, even in their seclusion, '...to see each other every two or three days. An abortion would undo that. This is a bond of Raw Magic, something we do not understand. I think it likely that the power with which we have been gifted would re-ignite. We would return to a state of near-constant desire.'

The Gryffindor witch blanched. Love-making had been wonderful. The almost-madness, the inability to focus, the embarrassing weakness in her knees like a damsel in a paperback romance novel, had not.

However, she felt a certain amount of relief for her bondmate's thorough destruction of her least-liked plan. They at least agreed the child ought to be born. 'So we're back to the beginning. How do we provide responsibly for our child? Madam Pomfrey has suggested adoption, and I've read up on it a bit.' A splinter of amusement from his mind.

_How much is a bit?_ he enquired.

'Enough,' she answered, but her stomach was twisting too much to return the mental smile. 'I think,' she paused, uncertain if the lie would make it past the lump that seemed set on strangling her speech. She swallowed it determinedly. 'I think I would be all right with that, if we can find a good family.'

Snape cocked his head at her. 'Are you really all right with that?'

Hermione bit her lip and shook her head. 'I'm sure you can feel that I'm not. But we don't have a good solution, and this one is most viable. I have two mutually exclusive responsibilities to fulfil – one must give way to the other. Madam Pomfrey also pointed out that the Order has many men and women capable of sharing duties to care for an infant – Molly Weasley, for instance – but I have no wish to add to the stress at Headquarters by bringing a completely helpless child there. The Order is a group of fighters, and when we are called upon, everyone going knows they might not come back.

'And,' she favoured him with a penetrating stare, 'the parentage must remain a secret. The boys – well, none of my peers – but _especially _Harry and Ron, can never know. There are glamours to disguise my appearance while still at school. A schedule can be worked out to remove me from the most volatile classes. But a living, breathing child who turns to me for food, for comfort, that I have to put to sleep every night and wake up with when it cries – these are not things that can be covered up or explained away.'

'And if Potter learns the truth, then the very split you wish to avoid-'

'He hates you. Worse now than ever, and when Professor Dumbledore...when he is gone, I have no doubt that Harry will be ready to kill you on sight. This is a breach for which he would never forgive me.'

'But a good family will be very difficult to find,' Snape sighed, seating himself next to her again. 'There are several conditions potential parents must satisfy. The first is that they absolutely have to be magical. This child is likely to have extraordinary power, and parents that can understand the nature of what they're seeing will be critical to healthy development. The second is that they shouldn't be British or related to anyone connected with the Order.'

'Why?'

'Because I made a promise to the Dark Lord. It is my firm belief that he will want little to do with the baby other than see it after its birth. No matter the horror stories, there are no Dark or Blood Magic rituals involving infants. One has to wait until a person starts manifesting magic before they can be of any use – for good or for ill. And those rituals are seldom used. It is often best to wait until seventeen and the age of maturity.'

'So you expect the Dark Lord to give us, or rather, the baby, time?'

'Yes. What use has he for an infant? Let him leave it with the mother to care for it while it learns how to walk, talk and feed itself. If he snatches it away immediately, a loyal Death Eater will have to take on the duty of caring for it twenty-four hours a day. I am almost absolutely certain that by the time our child manifests magic, my master will be in his grave. But in the event that I am wrong, that he wants it immediately, the first places he will look are in the houses of Order members or those with any link to the Order.'

'Out of Britain would be safest,' the young woman agreed, though he could hear and feel the rising lump of grief in her throat.

'And somewhere across the world will be best for you as well. Hermione,' Snape reached over to run one finger over her abdomen again, her skin breaking into goosebumps at the light contact. She stared at him, the quality of his gentleness shocking her. Severus Snape was _not _a 'gentle' man. He met her gaze with unflinching black eyes. 'You have to be prepared to give it up entirely. Never to see it. Never to hear from it. Never to write to the parents. You will give birth, it will be taken from you and you must be able to lift your head and walk forward with the knowledge that you will _never know _what your son or daughter is doing, how they feel, how they live, what they're learning. Can you do that?'

_Can you?_ she flung at him, voice too tight to speak.

_I made my choice when I decided to satiate the requirements of our bond. I knew that, no matter what I did, I would not be part of this child's world. The only hope I could keep was that you would be._

There was no place for him. Hermione felt her heart hollowing. Her bondmate was right. She could not have it both ways. To surrender her child to another's care would mean to walk away. For the rest of her life.

_I have to. It is the only way to keep it safe. _Her mental 'voice' fluttered in his mind like a whisper as salt water fell, and she was looking into black eyes as his hands raised to cup her face, thumbs smearing the water across her cheeks as water and wind danced over and through her skin, seeking to soothe her aching heart.

She recalled the last time he had found her with tears in her eyes, standing next to a cauldron in the Burrow, the tension that had seethed through the link they didn't understand. Now there was no strain, only a deep warmth and a sense of shadow, a relaxed retreat where she could withdraw from her burning emotions.

'But you do not have to do it alone,' came his understanding voice, and she wondered, holding the raw eyes, how many fights he had battled on his own, a burden that would have staggered twenty borne on his narrow shoulders.

'No,' she agreed as she regained her voice, letting her body melt into where his arms had come around her, a kiss pressed to her forehead.

~888~

Snape shut the door quietly behind him, his footfalls silent on the thick carpet. Minerva lifted her head from her desk, the papers she was grading instantly set aside.

'Hermione?' she asked softly. A tilt of the dark head indicated that the girl was still inside.

'Sleeping.' The soft tone and smooth quality of his gaze told her all the things that Severus Snape would never, in a thousand lifetimes, voice aloud.

She smiled as she rose, the pleased smile of a mother surprised by a son. 'You look ten years younger, Severus. I take it the two of you solved the problem.'

He scowled at her open delight, irritated by the ease with which his colleague read him. It made him feel naked, a sensation he had become too-familiar with over the past few days. He turned from her and reached for one of her many scattered paperweights, turning it over in his hands in an uncommon display of uncertainty.

'I am...unsure,' he admitted.

'What do you mean?'

'She wishes to put the baby up for adoption.'

'I see,' the witch replied. She shook her head at herself and the fantasies she had allowed to capture her imagination while waiting. A black-haired baby with intelligent brown eyes...a curly haired toddler furiously scrambling for Father's shiny beetle eyes...a ferociously intelligent six-year-old sneaking Mother's wand... 'You disagree.'

Snape shot her a sharp glance. 'Of course. I...Minerva, I'd hoped I could save her. I want her out of here – away from Potter and the violence that trails in his wake.'

He hesitated, swallowed, twisting his face away so the dark blue eyes couldn't divine his extremely obvious emotions. 'And it will be hard on her.'

'Yes. She is too passionate _not _to feel that loss deeply.' Minerva cast her mind for something else to say to reassure the man in front of her. She was unsurprised when the correct words did not spring to mind. He was truly an enigma. Almost as much of one as her husband.

And this girl, the Gryffindor Know-It-All and academic pride of Hogwarts, had wrought an unfathomable change in the cynical, always-composed man she had known. His acumen and his humour were two things she had never doubted, but gentleness was something she had seen emerge a bare handful of times – a surprising patience when dealing with a frightened Slytherin, a shocked or grieving colleague, or her maddening partner.

Of course, there was more to the man than the prickly armour that kept the vast majority of the world safely at bay and his genuine weariness of the students that couldn't be bothered to learn. But the man standing before her was more vulnerable than he had been since his teens, pain and pleasure in his bearing, in his eyes, in the way he spoke of his bondmate and the nervousness that kept long fingers running over the crystal he had plucked from her mantle.

'Don't make this more difficult for both of you,' she finally advised him calmly. 'I will be here for her when she needs me. Time is fleeting, Severus. Yours is short and bound by secrecy, but don't let it run out with things unsaid and undone.'

~888~

'Have _you _ever heard of something called a Horcrux?' Harry asked, frustration almost radiating from him as he paced to and fro at the end of his bed. Ron was resting on his duvet, Lavender's arms wrapped comfortably around him and Ginny was sprawled on her boyfriend's dark maroon comforter. All three wore blank expressions.

'Horcrux? No,' Ron said with a frown. 'What is it?'

'We don't know. Hermione can't find _anything _in the library. I was hoping it was something wizarding families might understand.'

'I've never heard of it,' Ginny added her voice to her brother's. 'We could write Dad.'

Harry shook his head instantly. 'I know about this from my lessons with Professor Dumbledore. It's supposed to stay private. And if someone else intercepts the letter...' He shrugged. 'I'm almost certain Professor Slughorn knows about it.'

'Is that what you're supposed to get out of him?' Ginny asked.

'Yes. But he's not particularly keen on sharing. I asked him once already and that was-'

'-a fiasco,' Ron completed ruefully. 'I remember that, even though I didn't know what you were asking about. So it must be forbidden or illegal. Maybe like the Unforgivable Curses?'

'Except that we learned about those in class. Crouch even demonstrated them,' the dark-haired boy replied.

'Horcrux,' Ginny muttered, rolling the word over her tongue as if trying it on for size. 'Horcrux. It doesn't sound like a spell. It sounds like an object.'

'It could be. It was something Voldemort was very curious about when he was here.'

'Do you think he had one?' Lavender asked.

'I don't know. Until I know what it is, I can't even guess. But I think Professor Dumbledore thinks he does.' Harry felt his aggravation building again. Dumbledore's disappointment tonight had been tangible, tying his student's tongue in shame as he stood before the elder wizard. Other things had seemed so much more important than this vague memory. Hermione's incident with Parkinson, Ron's poisoning, Malfoy's constant disappearing act...

And every turn had led to a new dead end. Slughorn was very clever at avoiding being alone with his favourite student since Harry had made the mistake of asking him directly, the library yielded naught and not _one_ of his peers had ever heard the term before, much less known what it meant.

'_There will be little point our meeting after tonight unless we have that memory.'_ Harry did not want to further delay meetings with the headmaster. Perhaps Malfoy knew. Were they tied together, the Horcrux and Malfoy's secret?

'Malfoy...' he muttered, staring out the window into a black sky. Focussed outwards, he didn't see the mutually disturbed glances from the three on the beds. The idea revolved slowly, solidifying. 'I bet Malfoy knows.'

'Right, mate. And if you're correct about him sending that necklace into the castle, what d'you reckon he'll do if you try to get it out of him?' Ron asked quietly. 'Confess? "Oh, sorry about that, I almost killed a total innocent, but it was really meant for..." Malfoy's playing for keeps, Harry, whatever he's up to. He's desperate.'

'So I'm just supposed to let him go to it?' Harry snapped.

'Maybe,' Ron said seriously. 'Maybe the reason Dumbledore isn't worried is because Malfoy is small fry. He's not You-Know-Who, and getting to him won't end the war. Kreacher and Dobby are already taking care of him. Don't let him distract you. We need to find out what this Horcrux is or means. Then we can worry about Malfoy.'

~888~

Draco Malfoy studied his reflection, lifting his fingertips to explore the hollow pockets under his cheeks. Like his father, the son of Lucius had always taken great pride in the patrician beauty that defined his clan.

A vanity that had disappeared, along with the cause of his conceit. And it was not his wan complexion that had brought him in front of this cracking mirror.

The letter from his mother had arrived this morning – tucked inside Pansy Parkinson's weekly letter from home and magically sealed – and the Slytherin knew he would hear the desperation that had bled through the brittle ink strokes, so unlike the previous elegance of Narcissa's pen, in his dreams.

_Draco, I beg you to deliver some positive news...the _Prophet _published the poisoning of Arthur Weasley's youngest son...if the governors have any reason to suspect you...is your project nearly finished? Is Severus helping you? Our lord grows impatient..._

Malfoy's fingertips found the tattoo that had been etched onto his forearm, tracing the puckered scarring with a morbid fascination. At his father's knee, he had learned what it meant to uphold the Purebloods, the natural hierarchy of the wizarding world and the travesty that had allowed Muggle-borns to weave themselves so flagrantly into the fabric of that order.

The lessons – formal and informal – had never included the base cruelty of the Death Eaters and the sheer quantity of damage they inflicted on one another as well as their Muggle and Mudblood victims.

'_In thirty years or so_...' he recalled Blaise Zabini's words and uttered a short, mirthless laugh. His mother, always delicate, was now teetering on the brink of collapse. His father, desperate and power-hungry, was seeking to pull down Slytherin's Head of House – a former friend. His own life in shambles, barely scraping through his academics while Occluding Snape and dodging Harry Potter. He was already sorry to have taken the damned Mark, the eager pride he had felt in July not only evaporated, but now seeming so naive it was laughable.

_Our lord grows impatient._ Malfoy tugged his sleeve down self-consciously, panic beginning its slow, relentless, build. Results. He had to hurry. If his master's patience ran out before the solution arrived, he would never see his mother alive again.


	8. Blaise's Offer

Disclaimer: Clearly, Harry Potter and all associated books, movies and paraphernalia do not belong to me. Many thanks to JKRowiling and others for their patience.

Blaise's Offer

_June, 1998_

Harry Potter couldn't stop the chill that crept down his spine, spreading to all the nerves in his back. Gringotts had always been intimidating – marble inlays and green-leather desks a symbol of old-world power, the lavishness that literally only money could buy – a place calculated to make one feel small and insignificant.

Now, more than a year and a half after the brief but harrowing and highly destructive Battle of Diagon Alley, the great structure had not been repaired. Columns tottered where they had once stood proudly, great chunks of them ripped away. The front part of the vaulted roof had collapsed into rubble and although all the bodies had been long since cleared, the blood stains had been left – the clean-up crews too exhausted to rid the ground of their ghastly markers. Every scrap of wood and leather had vanished – the vaults were underground, untouched and still accessible via the small, grubby shop nearby that the goblins had hastily converted into a pale shadow of the entrance hall, but witches and wizards (Mundungus Fletcher most likely amongst them) had stripped the once-grand trappings from the fallen bank, pawning the pieces as desperation crowded in on the population.

The young leader of the Order could barely believe he had come here for money just two summers ago. Gringotts exuded the long-time emptiness of a ruin, a fortress abandoned in ages past, not the casualty of a recent conflict.

Shaking himself to ward away his unwelcome thoughts, he held his silence in spite of his unease, keeping his ears open in the blackness, his experience-honed hearing keeping track of his partner where his eyes failed, listening for the light step that was uniquely hers – a blend of her Animagus form and years of training in battle.

An uncomfortable resentment towards his professor flared for a moment as silence met his ears, the former Head of Gryffindor having halted in the dark. He and Minerva McGonagall had passionately disagreed this past year, and though he had no doubts that her commitment to the Order and their victory was absolute, he had long mourned the demise of the woman who had been so strict and yet sympathetic during the years of his formal education. But Moody was correct – she had deliberately harboured Severus Snape. Sheltered him knowing what he had done to Hermione, defended his ex-best friend when Hermione had _known_ what was going to happen to Dumbledore-

-that line of thinking always closed his throat and brought tears of shame and betrayal to his eyes. He ruthlessly choked off both as another voice, previously silent but recently stirring, offered the counter point of view that the Weasley twins had steadily presented while backing Hermione. It was this part of him that whispered benign motives behind the Gryffindor witch's actions, growing steadily louder to match the indignant fury of Moody's gravelly tones in his mind. Charlie's arrival with the dragons had been nothing short of a miracle, the force that would enable them to effectively battle the giants. Hermione had been one of the writers pleading on his behalf with Goblins to join the battle – while he, Ginny and Ron had been hunting the much-needed pieces of Voldemort's sundered soul, Hermione had been building him an army. Not the roughly one-hundred-fifty rag-tag witches and wizards that comprised the Order and its informants and suppliers, but a diverse group ready for combat that could fight the many-varied creatures under Riddle's command.

The worm that had been wondering whether Moody's voice was the one he should be listening to turned over in his heart as uncertainty battered at the previously self-assured child-general.

'Lady Dumbledore?' said a soft voice behind them.

Harry spun, crouching instinctively, the tip of his wand glowing red with a non-verbal Stunning Spell.

'Griphook, Son of Graplin,' he heard McGonagall say pleasantly from somewhere near his left shoulder, her own wand flaring to life with the much less threatening _'Lumos.'_

'Harry Potter,' the Goblin inclined his head as Harry leashed the spell, almost too late. The short creature did not look remotely frightened as he stepped forward into the full glow of McGonagall's wand, his sharp eyes locked on the raven-haired wizard. For an instant, Harry was eleven years old again, getting ready to take his first ride into the underground warren, eyes wide, unable to process everything, Hagrid's friendly chuckle at his back...

Thoughts of the brave, now-dead half-giant brought water to his eyes and he bit the inside of his cheek to control it. He could not forge an alliance with his gaze brightened by tears.

'It has been a long time since anyone addressed me by that title,' McGonagall was saying warmly.

'Indeed. How did your late husband get the Sword of Godric Gryffindor installed in his office?' The question was obviously their pre-arranged security check, but Harry turned towards the Transfiguration professor with genuine curiosity. She was notoriously close-mouthed about her long marriage to their recently-deceased headmaster, and Harry found himself listening eagerly, almost against his will, for more information regarding his mentor and predecessor.

McGonagall replied swiftly, her words spare. 'He saved your father's life in Austria. Grindelwald sent his army flocking after the Goblins who had removed a highly valuable item cast in platinum. Albus created the defensive spells that allowed your father's team to escape. As a favour, you agreed to permanently tie Gryffindor's sword to his office and Godric's Sorting Hat.'

Griphook smiled as she passed his test. In spite of the shrewdness to his face, the warmth in the black eyes was sincere, and remained as his gaze roved over Harry again.

'We have heard much of you, Harry Potter, leader of the Order of the Phoenix. Your friend Hermione Granger of the Muggle World wrote of your stand for the oppressed amongst us – and the list is impressive. House-elves. Centaurs. Giants. Werewolves. Creatures others would not hesitate to label as weak, stupid or Dark.'

Harry tilted his head gracefully, masking the frisson of combined gratitude and anger that Griphook's mention of Hermione brought forth. Another of his former best friend's efforts coming back favourably. Another truce extended in his name that no one had seen fit to tell him of beforehand. Consuming resentment was stalled by the ingrained marvelling that all the anger in the world could not smother – that Hermione, and McGonagall, were once again three steps ahead of the rest of them.

'Whole species cannot be labelled. Humanity produced both Albus Dumbledore and Voldemort, Dolores Umbridge and Professor McGonagall,' Harry answered quietly. 'How can I claim that others must be one extreme or the other?'

The smile broadened and clever eyes cut to his co-Head. 'You are correct, Minerva, the boy has what many of his kind have been lacking in recent generations.' He looked Harry squarely in the eye.

'I am here to negotiate the part that the Banking Clan can take in your rebellion, and what place my people might occupy when we prove successful.'

~888~

_February, 1997_

'Adoption?' Dumbledore sounded like he was testing the word as it rolled out of his mouth, tasting before swallowing it. And unsure, once it was down, whether he liked the flavour. 'To completely cut contact with your child? Severus, I know you never expected to be a father, but-'

'I am one now and I will not be irresponsible regarding the life that I have created. I am a professional spy. She is determined to stand by Potter, no matter the cost. She is – we are – aware of the potential emotional pain and have made the choice to endure it rather than place a true innocent, with no chance at self-protection, in the path of the Dark Lord. I concur with her reasoning – especially since, as the father, I will hardly be in a position to offer the assistance she will need to care for the baby.'

'The child...your combined genetics will be a force to be reckoned with,' the elderly wizard sighed quietly, daylight searching night-dark eyes. 'Which is, of course, what Tom is banking on and most certainly desires. I assuredly agree with your plans to keep the child safe...but consider, Severus. What will happen when it is removed from her and the sphere of the Order's protection? I do not know if allowing someone else to raise the child is the best way to get what you both want.'

Snape's pale face wore a bleak expression. 'We will search for a family located outside of Britain and away from this bloodshed. We have too many children fighting this war already. My child will grow up far from the crimes of its father, from the risks undertaken by its mother.'

Dumbledore bowed his head once, conceding to Snape's point, unwilling to voice his primary concern. The chronicles kept by the Ang'guin Weyr told of the unsurpassed power wielded by those gifted with Elemental Magic at their births. The yellowing and water-damaged pages were littered with accounts of destroyed curses, plague victims cured by the thousands, the quenching of hurricanes and other feats that had passed into the worlds of legend.

The kind of power necessary to destroy multiple Horcruxes. But perhaps this unique child was not the catalyst they needed. Maybe another vessel could be found to contain the required magic. It was entirely possible that between them, the bondmates could do the job.

And he, himself, had demanded certain duties from Hermione Granger. Obligations that made motherhood impossible.

'Any help I can give either of you,' he said softly, and the sincerely compassionate quality to his eyes burned the dark wizard's cool response on his tongue, 'you shall have it.'

Snape stood for a long moment in front of the desk that had marked so many important moments in his life. 'Is there any chance whatsoever that I can be released from the task you have given me come the end of term?' he asked hoarsely. He had not intended to ask this question, as he already knew the answer. But the nest of Hermione's sorrow-lined thoughts flitting through the back of his mind drove him to ask anyway.

Dumbledore closed weary eyes, fingers tightened about the forgotten quill between them. The double agent had never made such a request before, no matter the tastelessness of many of the duties he had been asked to perform. 'I would that I could,' his employer said, and the mellow voice was scratchy with pain. 'Merlin knows you've so much more to lose now, and I grieve to know that I will take it away from you. But we cannot run the risk, Severus. We need those Horcruxes. Tom _must_ be eradicated.'

Hope and vulnerability flashed and vanished, leaving Dumbledore with the stiffly respectful Potions master he had hired fifteen years ago. 'Of course. Good night, Headmaster.'

'Good night, Severus.'

~888~

Blaise twisted in his seat as Slughorn genially called their NEWTs-level Potions class to order, a frown creasing lines in the boy's smooth forehead. Their third week of classes since the poisoning had rocked the corridors of the school – and despite the fact that Ron Weasley and Harry Potter were present, the former looking none of the worse for the events marring his birthday and the second radiating a crackling energy he hadn't possessed for months – the third member of the Gryffindor trio was still markedly absent.

It wasn't illness, for Hermione remained two rows behind him in both Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, and she, too, seemed more...present than she had since before Christmas. A few days ago she had delighted and shocked Vector by raising her hand and promptly offering an answer that left no one in doubt that wherever the young witch's mind had been, it had returned full force to its remarkable excellence and insatiable appetite for all things related to books and multi-line equations. The greying professor had been so pleased with this abrupt return of Hermione Granger, Star Pupil, that she had beamed broadly and awarded Gryffindor twenty points.

But that merely made the lithe young witch's sudden avoidance of the dungeon laboratory for the past three weeks a more puzzling enigma. She had listlessly gone through the motions for weeks, a faded shade of the academic brilliance that Slughorn had elected to include in his Club, and now, when it seemed that she was right back at the top of her form after Weasley's accident, she had, apparently, dropped a class that the wily Slytherin knew – from many years of observation – she enjoyed.

'Where's Granger?' he asked the pale-faced boy next to him. Malfoy looked up, startled, and his grey eyes shot automatically to the back of the room, his almost-white eyebrows drawing together as his knee-jerk reaction betrayed him: he hadn't even noticed that his academic rival of five and a half years had vanished in the past twenty days. Blaise took the moment to notice the deep, bruise-coloured shadows slung under the other boy's eyes, and the paper-white appearance of his skin, hastily shifting his eyes to the front of the classroom as Malfoy turned back, shrugging. This was not at all promising. When did Lucius Malfoy's son pass up an opportunity to gloat about any lapse coming from the Muggle-born witch?

Blaise dawdled at the end of class, his tactic made easier by his life-long coolness towards most wizards his own age. There was no one to nag him into hurrying, or to question his motives. He waited until he was sure that the only things he could hear were Slughorn shuffling papers on his desk and his own breathing before he spoke.

'Sir, what's happened to Hermione Granger?'

Slughorn jumped faintly and Blaise suppressed a snort. The pompous man's Ministry connections and fondness for associates in power made him useful, but the half-Egyptian couldn't imagine his predecessor being so completely ignorant of a student's presence. Not for the first time, Blaise wondered if he should go to his Head of House. Snape was a man in fighting trim, not a previously-retired professor, the saturnine wizard's reactions quicker by half than any other the young man knew.

But Blaise did not know which side of the divide claimed the Slytherin Defence professor's loyalties, and if Draco Malfoy were to be believed, it wasn't the one Blaise himself was now considering. No...he'd have to make due with the Gryffindor Prefect.

Slughorn shifted slightly in front of him and heaved a sigh. 'Unfortunately, Severus has insisted she be removed from my class – it seems her work in Defence Against the Dark Arts is not living up to what he expected and he's going to be giving her private tutorials at the headmaster's orders. He said that Albus agrees that she simply ought not to be taking so many NEWTs...and seven is quite a number. I'm sorry to see her go, but, there you are.'

Hermione Granger, the Gryffindor encyclopaedia, incapable of handling seven NEWT classes? There were rumours of a Time-Turner in their third year, for no one had been able to deny that she had taken every single class available to them – and there simply wasn't enough _time_. If she could manage that, then seven NEWTs were hardly a strain.

_Snape insisted_...and through his chill of mistrust and foreboding, the seventeen-year-old wizard suddenly thought of a distinct way to turn this to his advantage. He needed a way to speak to Hermione Granger alone. 'That's really too bad, sir. She's an excellent potioneer. If she'd like some help...I'd be glad to continue tutoring her outside of class time.'

Slughorn smiled beneficently at his student, proud of the Slytherin's offer to help his rival House. He knew that Dumbledore was warier of the serpents' den _en masse_ than of the rest of the student body and was pleased to see one of them strike out for solidarity in what was unarguably the most polarized atmosphere he'd ever witnessed at the famous institution.

'I'll pass that along,' he said jovially. 'That's a mighty decent thing for you to offer to do, Blaise. I hope she can take you up on it.'

Blaise wondered who the professor would be 'passing it along' to, but he dared not ask. Betraying too much investment in this potential alliance would be foolhardy at this embryonic stage – he didn't even know if Granger would talk to him honestly yet.

He could only hope that it was not his Head of House. If the other man had interfered in the witch's learning, it was unlikely that Snape would want to hear of any solutions.

~888~

'Again.'

Hermione swallowed her weariness, ignoring the heaviness of her legs as she once more assumed a duellers' position, glancing at Snape's seemingly loose shoulders and faintly slumping spine under his plain white shirt. The evenly-tempered colleague she had discovered and enjoyed in the Burrow last July had cautiously re-emerged, to her complete delight, over the past few weeks in the privacy of his office. Once again, the man she worked with rarely snapped, but often jibed, swiftly parrying with verbal swords while almost never aiming to wound. But in spite of her condition, Snape had not shifted his demanding curriculum one iota, and his expectations of her were – as they had always been – high.

To that end, he had checked all of his lessons with Madam Pomfrey and confirmed at exactly what points he had to call a halt in order not to endanger her health. In their three weeks worth of private tutoring, he had always pushed her to precisely that edge – taxing her without causing her harm, but resulting in the deep fatigue that heralded dreamless nights.

Transfiguration and Charms, both now one-on-one advanced lessons with her tutors to save her from any accidentally-cast spells in a crowded classroom, were proving to be equally taxing. Even though Snape and McGonagall knew the true reasons for her removal from the usual curriculum, all three professors were treating it as a chance to push her to her utmost, to delve into the mind that had found its outlet for five years in Harry Potter's schemes and homework twice its required length.

The young woman had reluctantly abandoned Potions all together. Many draughts generated fumes that were advised against for the pregnant witch, and that did not take into account the fact that these potions were being brewed for the first time by a group of teenagers in relatively cramped quarters. She had argued heatedly with her bondmate – everybody was in sixth year and nothing had exploded so far. Option after option had been refused. She could wear a mask, she could perform the Bubble-head charm, she could establish a shield, all to no avail. The dark eyes had gone from reasonably friendly to utterly closed-off.

'_It takes but ONE accident, Hermione. One slip. You take too many risks. Some of them are vital. This one is not. I would rather not be proven right by watching your blood drain into the floor. I have seen it happen too often already.'_

She knew that the necessary lies had been told to placate Slughorn, but no small part of her pride stung at the thought that her fellow students would think her incapable of handling the academic load she had taken. _Hermione Granger finally reaches her limit_, she thought morosely.

'Miss Granger?' he prompted. 'I was not aware that 'again' meant 'stare into the distance while waiting for your enemy to come along and disarm you'.' Snape still used her last name while training her. He had claimed that he needed to for the sake of compartmentalization. After a few sessions, she agreed. Miss Granger and Professor Snape had no personal relationship beyond a growing mutual respect – which was, in itself, quite a feat for one of his students – and the formality kept them both on-task.

'Sorry, sir. I'm ready.' Her brown eyes found his again and watched impatiently, tension stringing every fibre of her small frame as she strained with the effort not to drop her gaze to his wand. She knew now, from the DA and, unfortunately, from first-hand experience, that only a novice keeps their eyes on the wand-arm. The true intent of every attacker is plain in the eyes.

Even so, Hermione found it difficult to force her eyes away from the place the blast would come from, maintaining the unnerving and reciprocated lock with her teacher. She had discovered that her bondmate's long years of disguising emotion couldn't erase the singular intensity that mounted in the breath before he cast his offence, or the unique spark that it lent to his eyes.

Unwilling to cast spells directly on her, his slender wand of blackthorn was now pointed towards a desk some four yards distant, ready to set it alight. It already bore the scorch marks of her only partially-successful attempts to capture and rebound the spells spraying from his wand.

Mirror Defensive Spells. Until three weeks ago, they were in a highly advanced category of magic that the young woman had only read about. A combination of directional charms, magical shields and re-cast hexes; Mirror Defence was an excruciatingly difficult discipline to master. Snape had assured her than more than half her peers lacked the ability to execute the complicated magic at all, and of the remainder, perhaps a mere handful had the essential magic to cast them correctly.

'_And they are primarily used on a battlefield, Miss Granger_,' _he told her in their first private session._ _'I don't need to explain further why they are not part of the Hogwarts curriculum.'_

'_Shouldn't they be now?' she asked curiously._ _'We are not living in peace time, Professor.'_

_Obsidian flashed with amusement. 'The headmaster will doubtless approve the idea now that your oh-so-Gryffindor voice has been added to mine.' He shook his head. 'What would be the use? The requisite power would mean only a few could be so trained, effectively making them targets for the Dark Lord – either as recruits to be harvested or saplings to be cut before they can cause him too much trouble.'_

'_Harry...?'_

_The hint of a smile vanished completely, and Snape permitted himself to lift a hand, settling it on her shoulder in a rare display of mid-lesson intimacy. 'That will be your task.'_

So she learned. As much and as quickly as she could, returning to her midnight-readings behind her plush red curtains in Gryffindor Tower, devouring at equal speed the texts regarding her foetus and those volumes that she hoped could save her friends' lives.

But the combination of shield and rebound, sending the magic straight back to the caster and augmenting it with power of her own, was exhausting. And she still hadn't gotten the knack of capturing the offence without extinguishing it.

Every muscle in her body tightened as she forced her eyes to remain on his, waiting for the tell-

-the darkness of his gaze grew absolute, blacker than the shadows in a graveyard. This time, Hermione's wand twitched in unison with his _'Incendio!'_. Flames of blue ripping across the air were met by her Freezing Charm halfway to the desk. She twitched her wand, sending another wordless pulse of power – if she could pinch the flame between the two charms them, without crushing it-

-the first charm flickered...faltered...died. Neon fire continued its journey towards the wood-

-Flamma burbled like a child in her blood, recognizing its sibling streaking across the room. Conscious thought was muscled aside by unconscious knowledge, her now-useless wand clattering to the floor. She extended her empty left hand, orange licking forward eagerly, sprinting in a blaze of smoke as it moved to intersect.

Flexible as wand-magic was not, Hermione could feel the element wrapping around Snape's spell, layers of heat making an impenetrable shield. But there it stopped. She had managed to both shield and control the attacking spell, but she could not send it back towards him. The warmth in the room was rapidly growing, sweat trickling down her neck and between her breasts. _Withdraw_, she thought urgently. Crackling flame did not respond to thought. Her body did. She loosely closed the fingers of her left hand, as if the fire were held by a leash that she could tug back. She could feel the magic's resistance, and it obliterated her bondmate's hex as it reluctantly obeyed, pooling in her palm before leaking through her skin like so much liquid.

Her professor watched the entire event with narrowed eyes, unwilling to interrupt this first semi-deliberate manipulation of their gifts. 'Fascinating,' was his first word when the previously-uncontrolled element clearly bent to her will. Then he lifted his eyebrows. 'However, as we are working _with _our wands, what was the point of that little demonstration?'

'There was no point, sir,' Hermione sighed, breathing deeply. As with Neville's disaster and Parkinson's duel, her new magic had used up a great deal of energy in no more than a few seconds. 'You've seen how much difficulty I'm having with the confinement part of Mirror Defence. Re-direction is easy, and Shield charms are something I've been brushing up on since fourth year. But I tend to either snuff out the spell or else cause it to explode when I try to contain it. Flamma could do the job – but then I didn't know what to do with it. I had it perfectly ready to rebound, but no _way_ to do so. At least, not without my wand.'

'Indeed. Your ability to apprehend my movements has developed greatly, Miss Granger, but you must remember to cast wordlessly. The brain takes nanoseconds to deliver commands to your wand. Your tongue takes much longer. Proficiency in Mirror Defence is reserved for those who can think their spells and put enough power behind them in rapid succession. By the time a single hex passes your opponent's lips, the mirror should be in place.'

'Yes, sir,' she sighed. A pulse of fatigue shot through her, and she could see his head droop faintly as it hit him as well.

'You're tired,' he said sharply.

'What? Oh – nothing that a little chocolate won't solve, Professor.' She was loathe to stop practicing nearly half an hour earlier than any previous lesson. Her frustration with herself was mounting with her continuous failure.

'Sit down, Hermione,' he commanded, ending their training as he gestured to the armchair near the hearth. She wondered if she should argue and decided against it. She very seldom won disagreements where he perceived her safety was involved.

'Yes, Severus.' He was breaking chocolate at the sideboard, tea brewing on the silver samovar that had grown familiar to her over their evenings. She let her head loll on the chair, closing her eyes and taking deep breaths.

Snape turned from where he had poured the tea and halted, his gaze arrested by the woman so peacefully contented in his presence, in his space. She thought of this office – tucked, like Minerva's, behind the one he showed the rest of his students – as a haven, and so it had become. An overwhelming feeling of being too full welled in him, and he beat back the panic that threatened to assert itself. Authority was necessary, intimidation a useful tool, loneliness his life's companion. How could he accept what she offered? The relaxed limbs and abandoned vigilance that told of an unplumbed depth of trust. The rules – the _laws_ – he broke when it came to her, that she was willing to toss aside for him.

'Rules are for homework and dormitory bedtimes,' came her quiet voice, and the amber-brown eyes opened. 'To be violated when something more important requires it. What is love without some form of sacrifice – even if it is just one's own comfort zone?'

'I'm afraid that I have granted no philosophical thought to the subject,' he replied dryly, balking at the idea of entering into this particular emotional topic. 'I believe Miss Brown and Miss Patil will probably have much more to say on the matter. From the highly reliable sources _Witch Teen _and _Simply Enchanted_.'

'I had no idea you were so up to date on teen literature,' she replied as he handed her a cup. She brushed her mouth against his knuckles as she took it, delighting in the peculiarity of the match – the pure-white porcelain in his ink-and-ingredients stained fingers.

Hermione made a face as she sipped the bitter brew – sugar nullified the effects of the red raspberry leaves, which were, sadly, not as tasty as the fruit they sheltered. But her lack of iron was one of the medi-witch's chief concerns, and the older woman had hinted that regular intake of this specific herb – especially in the latter two trimesters – might ease her labour pains.

'Surely there's a potion to replace iron in the blood-stream,' she grumbled.

'Your traditional diet of black tea and milk is not recommended, Hermione, as you know. Caffeine is not good for the foetus.'

'Mmmph,' she muttered as she took another swallow. 'I'm _trying_ to cast wordlessly,' she began, returning to her continuing difficulty in completing the necessary sequence for the most basic of Mirror spells. 'But the magic just doesn't come out.'

'The task we have set for you is not an easy one,' he replied, a bite of impatience in his voice. She had learned that just as his patience was extremely limited for those who adopted airs of superiority, he was equally irritated by those who ran themselves down needlessly or expected too much, too early. 'I have already told you that it is an art many adult wizards and witches – including most of the Order – cannot develop or haven't truly mastered.'

'I am not accustomed to having so much trouble with spells,' she admitted.

'No. But Defence has never been your strongest suit and this surpasses what anyone has been taught at Hogwarts for years. Even the Patronus charm which Potter casts with such agility does not need as much concentration or force behind it. Give yourself time.'

'As I am constantly being reminded, time is something we do not have a lot of,' she muttered.

'No,' he answered slowly, 'it is not. But it will be sufficient to learn what you must.'

'I hope so. After all, I've got twenty-four-hour-a-day guard duty on "The Chosen One".'

Snape grimaced as he perched on the well-padded arm of her chair. 'The _Daily Prophet_ has always displayed outlandishly bad taste in its pronouncements, but it outdid itself with that particular nomer – and all the press surrounding it. Surely they could have settled on something less weighty and more inclined to the truth. "The-Boy-Who-Breaks-Curfew-Every-Night", for instance, has a certain appeal.'

'He takes the cloak,' Hermione said, stifling a laugh as she wriggled to get more comfortable on the cushion.

'He also breathes, walks like a herd of elephants trampling a jungle, and has an unerring sense for being precisely where he shouldn't.'

'I wonder...' she started thoughtfully, and her partner could feel another change of subject coming on. 'We should be looking for ways to hone the magic of our binding. We're no closer now than we have been since the hols. Why not use it, for instance, with Mirror Defence?'

Snape shot her a frown as he sat above and over her, his hair casting moving shade over the prominent nose and pale cheekbones. 'We potentially could – but you said you had no idea how to direct the magic after containment, which makes it practically useless. As yet, we have not discovered a reliable way to tap it. It seems to show up whenever it feels like performing and lie dormant the rest of the time.

'It also does not do to dismiss the conventional spells in favour of the new out of hand, no matter how flashy or exciting the undiscovered might be. We will continue to practice the well-known defensive methods. Not only is Raw Magic unreliable and as yet largely unknown to us, it would be preferable to unveil such talents at a time of our choosing, instead of during a desperate accident.'

Hermione shivered. 'Yes...I still can't believe what happened with Parkinson. I'm not sure I could have kept Flamma from incinerating her.'

A fractured fury spiked through her at the name, and her bondmate was unyieldingly harsh when he spoke. 'Pansy Parkinson acted more rashly than I would have ever believed of her. Draco's withdrawal must be hurting her more than I realized. But you are correct. When the elements ignite of their own will, they have always been uncontrolled. For the Dark Lord to come to our conclusion – that Raw Magic can be tamed and used at will – could result in significant problems.'

'He doesn't know, then, that you're researching your half of the elements?'

'Even if I were telling him, there's nothing to say.' Her bondmate scowled, frustration submerging his milder mood as he rolled up his shirtsleeves and rose unconsciously. Automatically, his feet fell into their stalking pattern, wearing the rug in an oft-paced arc like a caged wildcat, pondering their current problem. Several months of frantic research whenever his life had allowed an hour or so had culminated in precisely one conclusion: Raw Magic could, under no circumstances, be wedded to the use of their wands. Hermione's natural flame consuming his wand-driven one earlier correlated with that theory. The two forms were utterly incompatible, and the dark wizard was profoundly grateful that the differing disciplines seemed to at least reside within their bodies peacefully – it was not unknown for opposing magics to tear their vessels apart.

Hermione relaxed in her plush chair and, setting her empty teacup down, she found herself taking advantage of their total privacy to observe him openly, without worrying what other eyes might be on them. The young witch had found in the last three weeks that her life had returned to normal as it hadn't been since the skirmish in the Department of Mysteries almost eight months prior. She had used this restored equilibrium to start cataloguing details about her bondmate that had gone previously unobserved. She had found that in moments of severe vexation he pinched the bridge of his nose, that worry manifested in the way his whole body stiffened – not merely his face or back, but tension radiating from the entirety of his lean frame. But her favourite note so far was the way his hands were almost constantly in motion – whether drumming on a table-top, fiddling with a quill or stirring a cauldron.

She smiled as she watched him reach the far wall and whirl abruptly – the sweeping gestures another habit invented to intimidate. It had carried into his brooding movements of solitude even when he was devoid of the billowing outer robe that had earned him so many unflattering nicknames. Her initial surprise at the total change in the man she had spoken to after their extended mind-link in Dumbledore's office had given way to rueful reflection. She had always felt at least a little like a schoolgirl in his presence – he had many times her years, her experience, and she had ceded him the upper hand in their encounters before she realized she had granted him the power to dictate their terms. She had never _acted_ like an adult – looking to him instead to provide all her answers and direction, so it had not been difficult to understand why he had not treated her as one. Why, in spite of their magic-forged connection and his own genuine feelings, she had remained, first and foremost, an innocent he desperately wished to take care of instead of the partner and confidante she was striving to be. He had continued fighting for her, as he had done since she had attached herself to Harry Potter as a small girl, and he had also kept his secrets along with the sneering, mercurial exterior that protected them.

The Severus Snape who acknowledged her equal role in a battle where they fought alongside one another had emerged only when she threw off the last comforts of her childhood world and met him as a woman, not a girl.

Speaking of which...

'Has Professor Dumbledore mentioned anything further about our...erm...mutual study of Raw Magic?'

'No. He's been remarkably close-lipped on the subject since mentioning it,' Snape returned tightly. 'Which is hardly helpful. Now is not the time to be playing the headmaster's remarkable mind games.'

She frowned, but as another question regarding their peculiar and elusive magic formed on her tongue, her brain derailed, an image from the tall wizard's mind clicking to the forefront of her own.

'Blaise Zabini?' she said aloud, startled by the non-sequitar as she studied the aloofly handsome, chocolate-skinned Slytherin's face revolving in her mind's eye.

He halted sharply, sending her a glare. 'Do you think it possible to peruse your own thoughts instead of mine?' he snapped acidly.

'I know my thoughts – I'd much rather have yours,' she flung back at him. 'I didn't read you on purpose, Severus. But why are you thinking about Blaise Zabini?'

'Do you never tire of asking questions?' he muttered, but the anger had slipped away as rapidly as it had manifested, replaced by a strong hesitation as he turned from her in the quiet that followed. She knew he was wondering whether to tell her what she had stumbled across. The young woman waited, trying not to broadcast the impatience and curiosity that had marked five and a half years of magical education.

Reluctance gave way to a sense of inevitable resignation, and the tall wizard rotated back towards the fire as he spoke.

'Mr. Zabini is apparently concerned for your welfare.' He could hear the stiffness in his voice, so far removed from the semi-ease he had felt before his temper, never too deeply buried, had bristled, and winced at his own coldness, feeling as if he were truly hearing it for the first time in years.

'Blaise Zabini cares about _me_?' Hermione's slim brows had drawn together in a look of total bafflement, ignoring the tone she had heard so many times before, unable to compose a world view in which the removed son of Slytherin even truly knew what she looked like. Her encounters over the years had always been with Malfoy – surely to the rest of the Slytherins she was just the bushy-haired, buck-toothed, Know-It-All that she had been since their first year?

'I said "apparently", Hermione.'

'I heard you,' she replied mildly, turning this over. 'What did he say or do to give you this impression?'

'He noticed your absence from Potions.'

'Yes, well, that's hardly an indicator,' she said dismissively, setting her teacup on his desk. 'With me gone, he's next best in the class after Harry.'

Snape steepled his fingers, filing away the reference to Harry with others of its ilk. After the boy's barely-better-than-abysmal performance in his classroom for years, he knew that his abrupt brilliance at Potions must be suspect to his peers. The master of the subject wondered if his bondmate had figured out yet who, exactly, was the key to Harry Potter's sudden success.

'He's offered to tutor you privately.' He released that last morsel unwillingly.

Hermione froze. _Tutor her privately?_ A Slytherin she'd never even spoken to? They were both members of Slughorn's club, it was true, but she couldn't recall a single instance even at the exclusive dinner table where he'd so much as said, 'Pass the potatoes,' to her.

An offer of supposed help was precisely the opposite of what she would have expected from the status-conscious Slytherins...

But if Zabini barely knew her, she knew _nothing _about him. Only that he shared their classes and seemed to have no interest in Malfoy's gang. At that thought, curiosity blossomed. His almost total disdain for the rest of his House was a hopeful sign – perhaps they had little influence with him? A swift review of her encyclopaedic memory provided her with no moments that he had seemed, even briefly, to agree with the bigoted views of his closest classmates.

'Is the offer genuine?' she asked.

'Does it matter?' he countered immediately. 'You cannot brew Potions because of your condition. _I _cannot teach you now.'

She tapped her lower lip with her index finger, twisting her mouth to one side as she thought. 'I can still learn theory. I think I should take him up on it.'

Snape stared at her, wondering if the behaviour of her rash friends had finally worn a permanent place in her own psyche. 'You have access to every book in my private collection. What can you possibly gain from seeking knowledge from a peer – though he is a competent one – instead of a master?'

The Gryffindor witch was shaking her head, tumbling curls into her eyes. 'I don't think it's just about Potions.'

'Neither do I,' he responded sardonically, glad that they agreed on at least that point. 'But I would say that's precisely why you should stay as far from him as you can.'

'As long as we're in Hogwarts, surely I can speak to him once without taking a great risk?'

'Have you forgotten what Draco Malfoy has been ordered to do inside these walls?' he asked softly, and in the ringing silence that followed she could hear his recrimination-loaded, _And what I _will _accomplish?_

'Of course not,' she answered both the spoken and non-verbal reminder. 'But his life here has been...enigmatic at best. Students our age are beginning to make their alliances – on both sides of the divide. Do you know where he will go?'

'The Zabinis are infamously neutral. I have approached his mother on both the headmaster's and the Dark Lord's requests in both wars. She has refused to hear me on all four occasions.'

'Children are separate from their parents. She may maintain her position astride the fence, but are you absolutely certain that he will as well?'

Snape resumed his seat on his stool, staring blindly into the dimming fire. Would Blaise fight if asked? His lord, he knew, had wasted no more time on the family. But that meant nothing for the younger generations' aspirations. Zabini could have easily fallen sway to whatever whispers of power Draco Malfoy and his cronies were passing around the common room, and singled out the female third of the press-splashed Gryffindor group as his entrance fee to the ranks of the Death Eaters.

'I will approach him. As his Head of House, it will be a meeting easy to disguise under routine,' he decided, settling the matter with the finality in his voice.

'I think that wouldn't be wise, Severus.' She stopped him without a hint of trepidation, and as he cast her another glance, he was startled anew at how mature she appeared even with the wild mane surging around her face with every movement of her head, her eyes contemplative. 'Malfoy believes you are on their side. If Zabini has been listening to him, then he's already formed his opinion about you. _Everyone_ knows where I stand. That he has asked for me makes me think he might be willing to enter on our ticket – something he certainly won't tell you if he thinks you belong to the Dark Lord.'

'Or it could be a trap,' Snape pointed out.

Her slender neck swept downwards in a graceful acknowledgement, but her determination did not lessen. 'A classroom can be warded, shields erected around me. My mind is connected directly to yours. If there is danger, we can arrange for you to alert Professor McGonagall and she can intervene.'

She tucked her feet underneath her still-slim body as she leaned forward anxiously. 'Do not write off all the students in your House – it is not just, to them or to yourself. We already know that some of them have selected the Dark Lord. But if we have a chance even for one...we have to take it.'

So different than his employer's slash-and-burn philosophy. Where would they be now if Dumbledore had forced House cooperation years ago? If his serpents had not remained alienated, enduring the boos echoing from three Houses when they flew on the Quidditch pitch, forcing them to look elsewhere for acceptance and appreciation?

Hermione Granger's unbelievable capacity for forgiveness and hope was a weakness that he had, himself, exploited just a few months ago, twisting it to save her life. It was also proving to be one of her greatest strengths. The elderly wizard who spouted beautiful words about the power of love and compassion hedged his bets and chose his forks, disregarding those not woven into the plan. But Hermione saw everyone, and further, she regarded them as equal...this seventeen-year-old witch straddled the divide: in age, in allegiance, in knowledge and in attitude. She had become, by virtue of her own indomitable, un-subdued will, and fierce disposition, the fulcrum where they balanced.

Had Blaise Zabini sensed that? Under the unhurried, apathetic demeanour that had characterized his youth was there a boy who had realized what most of the Order themselves had not?

'_We have to take it.'_

'Speak to him,' he acceded to her logic quietly, ignoring the spasm of fear that lanced through his gut, insisting that he force the issue. 'But take none of your impulsive Gryffindor risks. Minerva and I will be standing by.'

~888~

That evening, Hermione watched Harry flipping through the heavily-marked Potions text, the familiar script once again gnawing at her as thick, late-winter fog pressed against the windows. 'You won't find anything in there,' she told him quietly. He shot her a glare and returned to reading the minute scrawl, searching for inspiration. Getting Slughorn to part with the necessary memory for the headmaster was proving more and more difficult. To her vague irritation, her eyes snagged briefly on a line of hand-written instructions, the lines demanding her attention. The hand was so familiar, spiky and scrawling, she felt she could almost hear a voice attached to it, impatient and snide, slashing like the strokes of ink. She drew a breath to ask her friend to put the distraction away-

'Don't start, Hermione,' Harry replied wearily, one finger skimming as he read down the page. The pressure to deliver after his last lesson had grown so heavy it round his shoulders like a physical weight, Atlas holding the world. 'If it hadn't been for the Prince, Ron wouldn't be sitting here now.'

Ron raised his eyebrows as if to indicate that the other boy had a point. Hermione waved her quill, shedding puddles of black over the table and Ron's freckled arms. 'He would if you'd just listened to Snape in our first year,' she said irately. And stopped, her brain freezing as it finally caught up to her mouth.

'_If you'd just listened to Snape...'_ The 'voice' the writing seemed to have was that of her bondmate...she resisted the urge to snatch the volume from Harry to confirm her suspicion. She had seen an old textbook from his fourth year this summer in their eclectic collection in the Burrow, marked on nearly every page – how could she have forgotten, how could it have taken her so long to remember?

_Crack!_

She jumped, uttering a small scream, and instantly reached for Harry and Ron. Her body had recognized the sound of Apparition, and a crystalline plan presented itself for execution without any permission from her brain. Escape was key – who knew who was Apparating into the castle? All wards could be broken – and the most important people to get out of the way were her closest friends, whom she could remove to the Shrieking Shack with no problem-

'Hermione, it's okay! Relax...it's just Kreacher,' Ron assured her, running one of his broad hands down the back of her hair, wincing as her nails dug into his other arm where she had seized him.

She blinked, reining the panic that seemed so ready to well up in her, embarrassment extinguishing its flames as mortification rushed in. House-elves were, of course, exempt from the magic that guarded the castle. At least Ron had kept her from Splinching all three of them in the anti-Apparition wards.

_Crack!_ She startled again. 'Dobby has been helping too, Harry Potter!' came the indignant squeak of the second arrival.

'Don't _do_ that,' she gasped at the tiny creatures, whose tennis-ball shaped eyes had gone very round as they took in her ashen complexion.

'We is very sorry, Miss,' Dobby murmured immediately, stick-like fingers automatically reaching for his ears in preparation to twist in punishment. 'We would never want to frighten Harry Potter's friends.' She took comfort in his contrition even as she stilled his hands, for it was clear from the delightedly spiteful look on Kreacher's face that she would get no such apology from him, no matter what his compatriot said.

'And Kreacher ought to tell Dobby when he is coming to see Harry Potter,' the small elf continued, looking almost dangerous as he glared at the bent-double former servant of the House of Black. 'So they can make their reports together!'

_Reports? _Hermione wondered if Dumbledore knew he wasn't the only one with spies in the castle. 'What is this?' she asked her friend, brown eyes going hard. 'What's going on, Harry?'

The young hero sighed, wondering if he should have limited his two rather unorthodox sources of information to appearing before himself and Ron. In addition to her prickliness about House-elves in general, Hermione had taken her stance on the other side of the Malfoy-Snape line and refused to be talked around. Harry quashed a brief flicker of uncharitable resentment – his job would be much easier to complete if he had Hermione's formidable mind and knowledge of the library in his camp.

'Well...' He straightened his back determinedly. 'They've been following Malfoy for me.'

Hermione would have been embarrassed to admit that her initial thought was one of thanksgiving – _as long as they had not been trailing Snape_. She had spent too much time with him in the past month to survive a spy as versatile as a House-elf.

'Night and day,' croaked Kreacher.

'Dobby has not slept for a week, Harry Potter!'

The Gryffindor witch cast her friend a startled look, which turned to worry at what she saw there – a kiss of remorse far outweighed by eagerness for information.

Predator indeed. What was her best friend becoming?

'You haven't slept, Dobby? But surely, Harry, you didn't tell him not to-' she let the question hang, sickness roiling in her at the thought that this boy who had taken such gentle care of her at the beginning of the term was now taking brutal advantage of Dobby's hero-worship.

'No, of course I didn't,' Harry reassured her quickly, and the gleam of a stalker faded into sincere concern. 'Dobby, you can sleep.' He waited for the elf to nod before pressing onward. 'But has either of you found out anything?'

Kreacher launched into a rhapsodic account listing every perfect quality Draco Malfoy possessed, which Dobby interrupted angrily and then ended with a predictably dramatic run at the fireplace. Quick as ever, Harry caught the small being round his slender middle before he could sail into the flames. When the danger had passed, Harry asked Dobby about the blond he had been freshly obsessed with since Ron's accident.

'Harry Potter, sir, the Malfoy boy is breaking no rules that Dobby can discover, but he is still keen to avoid detection. He has been making regular visits to the seventh floor with a variety of other students, who keep watch while he enters-' Hermione nearly groaned aloud as she heard Harry's Potions text strike his forehead, green eyes shining almost manically as he connected the dots she'd just figured out herself. 'The Room of Requirement! That's where he's been sneaking off to! That's where he's doing...whatever he's doing! And I bet that's why he's been disappearing off the map – come to think of it, I've never seen the Room of Requirement on there!'

'Maybe the Marauders never knew the Room was there,' Ron offered.

'I think it'll be part of the magic of the Room,' Hermione pitched in quietly. 'If you need it to be unplottable, it will be.'

'Dobby, have you managed to get in to have a look at what Malfoy's doing?' Harry's teeth were all but bared in his need for more information, and Hermione felt as if she were watching their House mascot incarnate, claws barely sheathed as he waited to pounce.

'No, Harry Potter, that is impossible,' Dobby answered.

'No, it's not,' the young wizard said immediately, turning back to his friends. 'Malfoy got into our Headquarters there last year, so I'll be able to get in there and spy on him, no problem.' '_He has branded Draco Malfoy, and sent the boy here with a specific task to be completed by the end of the year. Killing me.'_ _'Keep Potter away from Draco. He is not nearly so subtle as he thinks in following him.' _ The cracking, tired voice of Professor Dumbledore overlapped with Snape's lower, but no less fatigued, baritone, and Hermione felt her throat closing in fear of failing the all-important task set to her by these wizards. A flash of impatience so pure she knew she had adopted it from her mate seared through her. Why couldn't Harry listen? Or heed the signs? Draco Malfoy was desperate enough to kill by accident – how much worse would it be if the boy he despised above and beyond all others deliberately stood between him and his goal?

'I don't think you will, Harry,' she said, hearing her own voice hollowly through a cocoon of worry. 'Malfoy already knew how we were using the Room, didn't he, because Marietta had blabbed. He needed the Room to become the Headquarters of the DA, so it did. But you don't know what the Room becomes when Malfoy goes in there, so you don't know what to ask it to transform into.'

'There'll be a way around that,' Harry flipped his hand dismissively, jade eyes already distant, clearly planning. Hermione glanced at Ron, worrying creasing their foreheads in identical waves. 'You've done brilliantly, Dobby.'

Kreacher slanted him an unseen look of loathing, and as the elves vanished, Harry turned to them, exultant. 'How good's this? We know where Malfoy's going! We've got him cornered now!'

Hermione was relieved to see that the red-head on her right side seemed equally disenchanted with Harry's enthusiasm. 'But what's all this about him going up there with a "variety of students"?' Hermione wondered, unease tickling her. Was Blaise Zabini one of them? The nascent hope that had blossomed today was in vain if he was playing along with Malfoy...

'Yeah, that is weird...God, I've been stupid,' he whispered. 'It's obvious, isn't it? There was a great vat of it down in the dungeon...he could've nicked some any time during that lesson...'

'Nicked what?' Ron asked, unable to follow the conversation taking place half inside Harry's head.

'Polyjuice Potion...there aren't a whole variety of students standing guard for Malfoy...it's just Crabbe and Goyle as usual! Those two girls I saw him with when he missed Quidditch – Crabbe and Goyle!'

'He's got Crabbe and Goyle transforming into girls?' Ron laughed. The lumbering forms of their rivals would be so...awkward, trapped in the petite bodies they had been walking past for months. 'Blimey...no wonder they don't look too happy these days...I'm surprised they don't tell him to stuff it.'

'Well they wouldn't, would they,' Harry muttered quietly, 'if he's shown them his Dark Mark.'

'The Dark Mark we don't know exists,' Hermione countered swiftly, stifling the tide of guilt she felt as she purposefully tried to steer Harry in the wrong direction by shoving books into her bag and handing Ron's corrected essay back to him.

'We'll see,' Harry replied coolly, plainly irritated at her refusal to celebrate with him at this twisted development.

'Yes, we will,' she responded pointedly. 'But, Harry, before you get all excited, I still don't think you'll be able to get into the Room of Requirement without knowing what's there first. And I don't think you should forget,' she fixed him with a stare, as if willing her warnings into him by forcing them through the bright green orbs, 'that what you're _supposed_ to be concentrating on is getting that memory from Slughorn.'

'I _know_ that,' he snarled furiously, the buoyant mood brought by Dobby's revelations collapsing in the face of Hermione's defiant refusal to listen. He had _heard _the blond Slytherin talking to Snape, talking about acting, about it being crucial to their success – why couldn't his brilliant friend, who had followed him without hesitation under the school to retrieve the Philosopher's Stone, who had risked her life for him more times than he cared to count, understand this? This task of Malfoy's that would impact all of them? So much more _immediate_ than this mysterious Horcrux, whatever Voldemort had wanted it for...

It left Harry Potter deeply unsettled that Hermione Granger apparently had so little faith in him. The Department of Mysteries had been a fiasco, that much was patently obvious, but they had rushed in on false visions and Kreacher's lies. Now he had solid evidence, a real case, and yet his best friend continually balked...

'I'm going to bed,' he said curtly. He caught Hermione's worried eyes and hoped for a moment that she was about to offer a line, relent just a pace...but she merely murmured, 'Goodnight,' in unison with Ron and the Gryffindor Seeker had to content himself with that as he started up the stairs.

'This thing with Malfoy...I know Harry says he's heard things, but...' Ron was frowning as Harry disappeared up the stairs, uncomfortable with sitting in the middle between his two friends who had so seldom fought, both of them firmly refusing to budge from their entrenched positions.

'Do you really think anything would happen in Hogwarts that Professor Dumbledore isn't aware of?' Hermione asked quietly, testing the waters. Just a year ago, she would have written off her loyal but Quidditch-obsessed friend as too unobservant to have noticed the disturbing pattern she had picked out. But they had all changed enough in the last twelve months for it to have been a lifetime, and Ron had become surprisingly sensitive and watchful. She was sure this was helped by the steady presence of Lavender Brown in his life.

'Dunno, really...Quirrell was possessed by You-Know-Who and he was our teacher. Mad-Eye Moody wasn't even really himself and he was our teacher...Snape was a Death Eater and Dumbledore hired him anyway...' Ron's frown was deepening as he constructed a puzzle he hadn't quite thought about before, his mental chessboard belonging to the Order and the Death Eaters not adding up the way it always had. 'Weird, isn't it...all those people here...at the same time as Harry – and Dumbledore gone half the time this year...Maybe Malfoy _could_pull something right under his nose. It doesn't exactly seem like he's paying the closest attention, does it?'

Hermione nodded, Ron's assessment adding weight to the thoughts she had not been able to stifle since the poisoning. She knew the old wizard was doing his best, but sometimes one simply had too many items to juggle. Some of them were bound to slip through his hands.

And Albus Dumbledore was playing life-or-death stakes.

'Hermione?' a wavering voice sounded from the foot of the stairs, and the two friends whipped around in a coordinated movement, Ron rising automatically at the sound of distress in his sister's voice.

'Ginny?' The older witch hurried towards the fifth-year, alarmed by the paleness of skin that contrasted too sharply with the cascades of brilliant red hair obscuring her face, making her look again like the frightened child Harry had pulled from the Chamber of Secrets, and not at all like the determined young woman Hermione knew her to be.

'What is it, Gin?' Ron asked, hastily vacating his chair so that his friend could steer his sibling into it and sitting down across from her.

Ginny took a deep breath that shuddered in her shoulders before managing a self-disparaging, 'Just a nightmare.' Her voice rose again as she gazed at Hermione with eyes still half-wild from the memory. 'I looked in your dormer first...I woke Lavender, I think.'

'Oh, Ginny...' Hermione took the other girl's long fingers and squeezed them gently. 'What was it about?'

'Harry, of course,' the other girl replied quietly. 'He...' She hesitated, then locked eyes with each of them. 'I know he's your best friend, but he can never hear this.'

'Of course,' they murmured in unison.

'Sometimes he frightens me. He's been so...different. Since you were hospitalized,' she looked into the warm blue eyes of her brother, and Ron blew a long sigh.

'I've noticed.'

The youngest Weasley folded herself on the couch, wrapping her arms around her knees in foetal position and resting her chin on top of them. 'He was so savage in my dream...so ruthless...so cold. Mum and Dad had me checked at Saint Mungo's for the after-effects of Tom Riddle's possession years ago, and I'm certifiably You-Know-Who free...but in these dreams, Harry reminds me of him – untrusting, uncaring...' Her voice dropped so that both sixth-years leaned in to catch her words. 'And the biggest problem is that the nightmares just reflect my waking thoughts...he's so _hard _now, so focused on what he thinks is right...both of you – your depression, Hermione, and your poisoning, Ron...they've hit him hard. He's out to eradicate whatever presents a possible danger to those he loves and he doesn't care who he becomes along the way.'

Hermione nodded, not daring to meet Ron's bright blue eyes, knowing her pain would be reflected there. She couldn't disagree with Harry's girlfriend. From withdrawn and distant, Harry had become combatively, obsessively alive. But not as the supportive, if often volatile, friend she'd had before. She knew he believed he was doing what would be best for all of them...

But she had seen the ugly hungriness in Voldemort's face via Snape's memories, and when the firelight had caught Harry's eyes as he plotted revenge on Malfoy, flame dancing on his glasses, she had seen a glimmer of crimson poison the green.


	9. Founders' Hall

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated products are not mine.

Founders' Hall

_June, 1998_

'Enter.'

The dangerous hiss in front of her chilled her blood, even as strong fingers wrapped around her upper arm from behind, shoving the young woman stumbling through the door and into a room restored to a gleaming grandeur that came from fairy tales.

Aside from the skeletal man awaiting her in the chair facing the fire. Lord Voldemort would never be on anyone's list of Prince Charmings.

'Your fear is palpable,' said the cold voice, tongue flickering out to wet the thin-lipped mouth, tasting the air in mimicry of the serpents he so favoured. The Dark Wizard rose and the witch found herself kneeling as Lucius Malfoy jerked her down with him, hand still clenched around her small bicep tightly enough to bruise. 'You should learn to better control those Gryffindor sensibilities you possess.'

'Yes, my Lord,' she whispered, throat so dry she could barely form the words.

Silence wrapped them, until finally Voldemort spoke again, forbidding impatience lining his voice. 'I was under the impression that you had something to report, girl. I have my doubts you have come solely to endure my displeasure.'

'No, my Lord,' she said hastily, and, before the burning of her betrayal could choke the words in her throat, she added, 'Charlie Weasley has returned from Romania. With dragons for the Order.'

Voldemort's eyes narrowed. He had rumours, of course, from his contacts in the central and eastern quadrants of the continent, that several known dragon trainers had changed their programs in the past nine months – focusing recently on formation flying, teaching riders how to control and direct rapid bursts of flame, and how to treat injuries while airborne.

But to know that the force had been brought to Britain...it seemed that the Order had accelerated their plans. The battle would have to be soon, before more allies could be garnered. With his Dementors, giants, werewolves, vampires and trolls, he knew his own army to be the superior one. But if they had access to dragons, the fire-breathers already significantly weakened his advantage.

'How many?'

'I don't know, Master,' she answered nervously. 'More than fifty, I think less than two hundred.'

'Where was Severus Snape for this meeting?' The girl swallowed.

'He was there, my Lord. He had a private meeting with Charlie afterwards to plan strategy.'

The first smile of the evening made its appearance on the waxen features. Malfoy, watching his master covertly, ground his teeth. It was always about Albus Dumbledore's former employee. For the past eighteen months, it had been nothing but Snape, his unmatched loyalty, his brilliance – even his bonding to the Mudblood child and their thrice-cursed progeny had been lauded as a gift, a great stroke of destiny allowing their lord to rise even higher.

'Excellent. You have served me, and those you love, well.' The barb found its mark, as Voldemort had known it would, and the lowered head jerked violently under his cruel smile. 'Severus will bring me the rest of the information I need.'

The girl rose, her feet unsteady in her haste, bowed again and backed out of the room, her desire to put as much space between herself and the capricious lord only too plain. The vermilion eyes sparkled with humour as he watched her flee into the mildew-lined corridor.

'Do go with her and ensure she reaches her destination, Lucius. I would hate to lose another valuable resource.'

'My Lord,' Lucius murmured, tilting his blond head and allowing the fine strands of his well-kept hair to shield his face, masking the fury he knew seared in his eyes. Though he had toiled tirelessly to regain the Dark Lord's favour since his release from Azkaban, he had been unable to disturb Severus Snape's place at the powerful wizard's side, an honour his sneering one-time protégé had occupied since the Department of Mysteries had landed so many of them in the formidable prison.

The vitriolic ex-Hogwarts-professor had more defences than a fortress prepared for a century-long siege. He seemed to have no weaknesses, no pressure points, his seamless loyalty to the Dark Arts and their master proven again and again.

Severus Snape's greatest strength was that he did not care if he died, and it appeared that he did not care who else perished, either.

But _every_ man had a weak point, and, as Lucius hurried his steps to follow the girl running away from the old mansion, he promised himself that he would find whatever it was that inhabited the heart of his rival.

And destroy it.

~888~

_March, 1997 _

'...list of families in the United States of America, if you want to read up on them. Apparently, Americans are a great deal keener on adoption than we are,' Minerva McGonagall muttered as she thrust a hefty pile of parchment perilously close to the burning candle on one edge of her desk, singeing the underside of the bottom piece.

Hermione hastily seized the papers before the office could go up in flames, turning to her bondmate in exasperation as his unheard chuckle rippled in her mind. His expression remained so neutral, dark eyes apparently devouring the material in his hands, that she wondered how often students had written off both this man's thoughts and feelings over the past fifteen years. How many times had they sought a reaction and, seeing nothing in his face, assumed him incapable of giving one?

'Where did all of this come from?' the young witch asked, bewildered by the sheer quantity of the information her Head of House had gathered in the space of a month.

'A contact here, a Floo call there,' Minerva replied, her answer as deliberately hazy as any her husband might give. 'It takes very little to pull the correct heart-strings. "My niece is having a little trouble..." "She's a young woman with a lot ahead of her, but she simply can't abide the thought of a wasted life..."'

'Well, you're not wrong there, Professor,' Hermione muttered, shifting in her seat.

'I know.' The levity disappeared as Minerva levelled her best student a firm look. 'I do not mean to belittle the sacrifice you have volunteered to make, Hermione. It was not an easy decision and it will hurt. But, fortunately, it also plays wonderfully on people's sympathy – they tend to be enormously helpful without sticking their noses in too far.'

This time, the surprise rolling through their bond manifested on Snape's face, along with a genuine admiration. 'Such underhanded tactics,' he drawled. 'Godric Gryffindor must be rolling in his grave. You should have been a Slytherin, Minerva.'

She shot him a glare and sniffed, but Hermione had learned enough about her professor to see the glimmer in the dark blue that told her the Transfiguration professor was acting. 'Salazar Slytherin had no monopoly on brains, Severus. Or cunning.'

'Perish the thought,' he replied with a hint of a smile. 'If he had, where would Ravenclaw be?' This earned him an outright snort and a deliberate removal of the biscuit tin from his immediate reach – a futile gesture as he wordlessly floated a ginger snap into his palm.

Hermione watched the byplay from behind a half-raised sheet of parchment, her mind only half on the neatly-printed page.

The bond with her acerbic Defence teacher had long ago brought out the human being behind the sneer and full-length wool robes, but she had been startled to realize the extent to which she had never truly considered any of her professors to be _people_. Flitwick, McGonagall, Sprout, Dumbledore and the many others who been standing at the front of the classroom or filling the seats at the Head Table for her entire magical education were mere sketches of humanity. Her mind's eye had drafted severe charcoal drawings – done by a master, exemplifying all that she should aspire to be – but lacking the details of colour and shadow.

Her growing awareness had expanded recently to include her very-human Deputy Headmistress. The strict-but-fair professor that greeted well over a hundred new students every year at the Sorting and sternly guided the Gryffindors through their education hid the wife of the headmaster, a woman with passion and devotion to match any student in her House. The mouth that rarely smiled in the classroom cloaked a ready, dry humour that matched the sardonic wit Snape took care never to reveal in front of her peers. Sometimes, when listening to them or observing whole conversations consisting of nothing more than a look, Hermione felt as if she were witnessing an intricate dance they had memorized the steps to long ago.

And occasionally, when the younger witch was certain Minerva was unaware of being scrutinized, the softness of a mother graced the deep blue eyes. Few brought such relaxation to the lines around the professor's mouth, and Hermione was grateful that Snape was one of them.

The ancient clock on the mantle tolled gently, and three sets of eyes flickered upward, interrupting her drifting thoughts and their efficient silence. The cosy poses disappeared as the two teachers brought their gazes downwards, unabated concern scissoring between blue and black before resting on their determined partner.

'If anything happens-' Minerva started in a quiet voice.

'I know,' Hermione assured her. 'No unnecessary risks.'

'Indeed, Miss Granger,' Snape purposefully addressed his student, driving his words home. 'You excel at memorizing lessons. Let us hope this is one of them.'

_Tread carefully, Hermione. He is an unknown quantity. You cannot afford to trust any appearances, no matter how flawless. Remember that he very likely knows exactly what you _want _to hear._

_You have my word_, she promised. And he did. Her education had been littered with those whose sweet or sour words had deftly blinded their students and their colleagues to their true intentions. She had learned at twelve that appearances counted for very little.

Silently, she put away the nervousness that had been building since her insistence that she meet with Blaise Zabini alone, pulled open the door to Minerva's office and started down the chilly corridor.

~888~

The door to an unused dungeon classroom swung open, and Blaise Zabini whirled mid-stride, forcing himself to stillness, as if he had not spent the past seven and a half minutes wondering if she was going to come.

'Granger,' he greeted her carefully, noticing the slow, dignified way that she carried herself into the room. Something had markedly changed about her movement in the five weeks since she had started taking her Defence, Transfiguration and Charms lessons privately. It was...statelier. Almost cautious. He had not seen her flat-out run since the morning of Weasley's poisoning, a sharp contrast to the girl who had been in a constant hurry for most of her schooling, books, hair and quills going every which way.

'Zabini,' she returned, exactly matching his neutral tone as she nodded to the boy standing near the blackboard and crossed to the dusty desk.

Ignoring the faint twinges in her back – Madam Pomfrey's books had also warned that this would be a symptom of her condition as the pregnancy progressed – she pulled out her shrunken cauldron and apothecary-stocked Potions kit. She might not be able to actually brew, but pretending that she was taking him at face-value would give away neither her hopes nor expectations of their encounter. Her bondmate had warned her against revealing too much information prematurely. Hermione's intuition told her that the aloof Slytherin presented no threat, but gut instinct had not been satisfactory for Snape and he had instructed her scrupulously for this so-called lesson.

She felt fire's curiosity prick at her guarded uncertainty, the element wondering if the half-Egyptian might pose a threat to its mistress, and the sinewy power rippled unexpectedly through her small muscles. She took several deep breaths as her hands continued to automatically lay out ingredients and tools, quelling flame's unpredictable response. Reducing the Slytherin to ashes would _not_ be conducive to her plans.

'It was very kind of you to offer to help me,' she forayed quietly, testing ground. She met his almond-shaped, unreadable eyes and loosed the bluntness her House was so famous for. 'I wouldn't have expected you to. Being a Slytherin and all.'

'Not all of us ascribe to the mindless bigotry that you have encountered in Draco Malfoy,' he parried deftly, if slightly stiffly.

'I know that,' she replied. 'But I had no idea you took such an interest in my academics to even notice my absence.'

'The lack of constant hand-waving was a sure sign of your departure,' he assured her easily, the words out of his mouth before he could consider them. Her eagerness to offer all the answers was so well-remarked, by admiring and denigrating staff alike, that she might take it as an insult.

Instead, she burst into laughter, the sound pealing off the stone walls like a cheerful bell. 'Ten points to Slytherin for a clever retort.'

'Too bad prefects can't actually give points,' he quipped. This was going much easier than he expected. He had made her laugh, and although her initial demeanour warned him that she wasn't entirely at her ease with him, he had expected that. She had, after all, survived battles. Several of them. And he belonged to a camp that largely supported and supplied the enemy.

Mirth lingered in the crow's feet beginning to form at the edges of her eyes, but her gaze had turned appraising as she moved forward, abandoning her work station to stand across from him. 'Having dispensed with all the usual pleasantries, shall we move on to why we're here?'

The firmness to her voice as she asked that question made the young man abruptly feel as if he were standing in front of Professor McGonagall, and as he looked into her face, the features aligned into wary expectation, he knew that she was aware of his motives, and that his goal had nothing to do with Potions or any other form of academia.

It was now or never. She had already divined his purpose, though how, he could not guess. Now he would have to do that which no Slytherin in his right mind ever did – trust someone he barely knew to help him jump the gap from the serpents' nest to the lions' den.

'There are rumours-' he stopped, flicked his wand wordlessly. A streak of power displaced air and Hermione recognized the backwash of magic as it kissed her skin. Although they still had yet to commence any formal training, she was able to feel her new magic growing stronger every day, enhancing the physical world around her at odd moments. A few months ago, her body would never have noticed the physical passing of an enchantment. She shifted her right arm just slightly in discomfort, feeling her wand drop against her tucked palm. He had cast a Silencing Spell. Adrenaline shot through her as she prayed she hadn't made a mistake—

'There are rumours,' the dark boy started again hesitantly, 'of a group that Dumbledore commands. An army structured to fight the Dark Lord where the Ministry is so obviously failing.'

Hermione tilted her head, expression utterly blank. Zabini was impressed. Had the girl been taking lessons from one of his House members? This completely polite, un-cracked facade was hardly Gryffindor's norm. Where was the heart she had once so prominently displayed on her sleeve? He might have said that he thought it would rain today, for all the reaction she showed.

But it was her silence that prompted him to continue. He had to commit himself irrevocably, cutting across the grain of more than five years of carefully constructed neutrality.

'I would like to join it.'

~888~

'He simply _announced_ it to you?' Snape asked incredulously, rising from his desk at the young woman's startling news, delivered promptly as the door to his office closed on her heels.

He was grateful that the surging power linking their minds first term seemed to have gone into remission with the rest of the magic. He no longer had to pour enormous energy into actively Occluding her most of the day, and the risk that the Dark Lord would sense her within his mind was greatly reduced.

It did, however, mean that the unpredictable young woman could genuinely surprise him once again.

'I just told you exactly what he said,' she confirmed.

'And how did you reply?' His feet had carried him to the sideboard, where tea could be prepared, but here shock interrupted habit, and his hands seemed to have lost the automatic coordination for the simple movements. The Head of Slytherin wondered darkly what game his student was playing, and cursed his own stupidity in overlooking the boy for all these years, assuming the disinterested child would grow into an apathetic man in the family tradition. Had any of his other charges made such a bald statement, Snape had no doubts as to his ability to instantly distil their motives.

But not Blaise Zabini. And the fact that they had another wild variable added to a rapidly disintegrating equation unsettled him. June loomed closer all the time, and there was still so much to do before his masters together dislodged him from the school that had been his prison and his haven for two decades.

'With monosyllables,' she was answering wearily, manoeuvring her way to her favourite armchair. 'It was exhausting, trying to figure out whether he was lying or in earnest.' Her hands came to the back of her neck, rubbing distractedly.

'So you don't know,' he said. It wasn't a question.

'I _think_ he was telling the truth,' she sighed, knowing that this was not an argument that would sway Snape's opinion.

'Such resounding proof,' he snipped predictably. 'I certainly feel better about risking my life, yours and Potter's on such a statement.'

'Severus...' she warned.

'I have been having this fight with the headmaster since shortly after you were born,' he snapped, turning abruptly, bitterness clouding his vision. 'You have seen the most private corners of my mind, Hermione. Can you still claim the naïveté that Albus Dumbledore has allowed to determine his manner of death? Do not cling to his beliefs. Do not enter this battle convinced that there is good in everyone, that the universe is, at the end of the day, governed by Justice. Do not take as an article of faith that that Light has to win not by superior strategy but because it is Right. If such a balance were guaranteed, men like the Dark Lord would never have existed in the first place.'

As swiftly as it came, the hard look vanished. The quiet loneliness she had learned to read well replaced it, and his hands finally seemed to recall the simple steps for making a cup of tea, for she suddenly found a teacup and saucer suddenly hovering at eye-level. She sniffed the liquid and made a face, consigning his warning to the realm of the heard, but un-discussed.

'Doesn't the doctor ever order anything different?' she teased him quietly. He did not reply, settling for watching instead as slender fingers plucked the cup from mid-air, bringing it to her lips in an abstract gesture, the amber eyes shining liquid in the firelight.

For the whole torturous month of January, he had kept his eyes averted, consciously struggling as day followed night not to look at her, to keep his mind as free of her as possible – to prove to his master that ripping out his heart had come at little cost and even less consequence.

Now, in the quiet moments between one life and another, in the pauses gleaned from packed corridors and concentrated classrooms, his mind filled the gaps with her myriad, undiscovered little things. The way she tapped her feet on the floor while thinking. The tiny, ink-stained callus on her right ring finger. Her eager dive for her books when confronted with any question. Like pearls on a growing strand, he stored them in the depths of his thoughts, his love doubling back on itself, strengthening with each added gem.

The way she impatiently threw her hair up especially fascinated him. There was so much of it, but a deft twist of her wrist and the thrust of a Muggle pencil – which she seemed to keep on her person solely for this purpose – swept the whole mess out of her face and caused the riotous curls to fan out behind her head like the disobedient rays of a rising sun. It was a gesture simultaneously feminine and competent, the unconscious brusqueness of her manner off-setting the smooth neck it never failed to reveal.

A question pulsed in his brain, and he could feel the heat of his partner's gaze on his face as she searched it, deliberately pushing open the gates to her mind that had previously been so impossible to shut, tacitly encouraging him to continue his obvious concerns in the privacy of their bond if he wished not to speak aloud.

When neither thought nor voice filled the silence as she sipped her tea and he took up his place on the stool by the fire, she pressed. 'Talk to me, Severus.'

'What would you call what I just did?' he muttered, pulling himself out of pleasant musings. His distraction meant that all true rancour was lacking, and her quiet consumption of her astringent beverage eventually yielded the results she was seeking, the lithe figure utterly still as he stared into the fire, voice coming slowly, as if he were self-editing ideas before they escaped his tongue.

'I can not imagine what benign motive would move Mr. Zabini to say such a thing. Were I to hear the statement in a vacuum, I would assume that one of your House made such a firm declaration. Blaise Zabini may care little for the Dark Lord, for the Ministry and for the politics currently rending this castle in two, but _nothing _should induce a Slytherin of his breeding to openly – and honestly – plant his feet on the wrong side of his society's line.'

'Severus-' she hesitated, her free hand absently drawing circles on her belly. 'I can't tell you why I think it's not a trap.'

'All logical evidence points to the contrary,' he replied bluntly.

'I know,' she said, mouth twisting in frustration. 'But I don't want to just write him off.' Her brown eyes met his, and a stirring challenge blew through his mind before she voiced it. 'Justice may not govern the world we live in, but that doesn't mean that it shouldn't. It's unjust to make him bear the yoke of his classmates' crimes.'

'Merlin, spare me Gryffindors,' Snape rolled his eyes. 'Slytherin House, Hermione, is based on a caste system as old as wizarding society itself. It's one of the reasons that the students admitted to Slytherin are markedly different than those in the rest of the school. Whether half-bloods or Purebloods, they adhere to a much more rigid pecking order than Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. They do it because either their parents or the parents of their peers do it. As with all such hierarchies, there are 'musts' and 'mustn'ts'. If Blaise Zabini is sincere, he has just broken one of their largest taboos.'

'Hierarchies change. And not all people conform to them,' she responded instantly, stubbornness putting down roots in their shared brain. 'He's never been Malfoy's best friend – why couldn't the simplest explanation also be the truth?'

'You have no reason to believe a single word from his mouth,' Snape returned impatiently. 'I have spent the last month teaching you not only defence, but also how the enemy thinks. Your face and name have been splashed across enough press cuttings with Potter's to make your allegiances undeniable. Draco Malfoy has been carrying home tales of your unmatched intelligence since his arrival at Hogwarts. This makes your value as a war prize enormous.' He lifted a hand to cut off her objection. 'Which proves only that he is working alone. All the Death Eaters have strict orders not to touch you. But if Zabini were truly interested in joining the Order, why not speak to the headmaster? The boy has shared a dormitory with Draco Malfoy for six years – you can't expect him to come to the table with a blank slate.'

'Yes, but even Malfoy _is_ still intact,' she shot back. 'Still worth taking risks to protect. Isn't that why you're-' she stumbled. The intervening weeks had not blunted the pain nor the fear that Professor Dumbledore's revelation had bred in them both, and every time it was mentioned, she found her tongue scrambling around it.

'Draco may not yet have all of Lucius' savageness, but never doubt that cruelty, like the platinum blond hair and grey eyes, runs in his blood. And even if Zabini is telling you the truth, if he joins the Order...what coercion will he find himself subjected to from his immediate peers? What tortures from their parents?'

She blanched at this previously unconsidered condition, but tenaciously held to her point. 'We _need_ allies. We both know the Order's situation now, and it's about to take a turn for the worse. Zabini's potential goes both ways. It should be reasonably easy to keep his involvement in the Order a secret until the end of the year. And then after that...' She shrugged expressively. Hogwarts would close. His proximity to his Slytherin peers would vanish, and with it, the dangers associated. He could join the Order full time.

'After that? It will be that much easier for him to simply "disappear" should the Dark Lord so wish,' Snape rebutted harshly. 'Use the brain we both know you possess. To make a child vanish from Hogwarts is no simple trick – a large part of the wards around the castle pertain only to the population under nineteen. To dodge all of them successfully takes time, skill and knowledge. But once you depart the grounds, anything becomes possible. All it takes is a single pointed finger. Once suspicion has been pinned on him, my master would find your worship of justice laughable. The _whisper_ of Zabini's allegiance to the Order is enough to condemn him.'

A twist of sadness laced with icy wind twisted in Hermione's chest, and she realized with a start that the Head of Slytherin's hesitation stemmed not merely from his deeply untrusting nature but also from an acute concern. She knew that her surprise washed through the open bond connecting them, because the thin mouth relaxed slightly as he met her eyes.

'No matter what I say or do in the classroom, Hermione, I have never relished the prospect of those I teach falling to the Dark Lord. Whether they take his Mark or die at his wand, it is a tremendous waste of life.'

Her reply was derailed as the fire roared, changing from brilliant orange to neon-green, and Albus Dumbledore's deeply lined face popped into existence, beard trailing on the carpet. 'Excellent,' he announced, his eyes twinkling with the good humour that seldom failed outside his office. 'I hoped I would find you both here.' The sky-blue gaze cut from one to another. 'Am I interrupting?'

'In a timely fashion, as always,' Snape answered blithely. 'Miss Granger has just finished reporting to me on her meeting with Mr. Zabini.'

'Indeed?' His incisive gaze sharpened further, and the young woman held his intensity, even though she felt an itch of discomfort under the penetrating stare. To her great surprise, he did not press for details, but merely asked, 'In that case, will you permit an old man to further intrude? I fear my knees are no longer content to be pressed against hard stone for great lengths of time.'

'Do we have any choice?' the dark wizard replied, and slid off his stool. A moment later, the full – if cramped – form of the headmaster was spinning into view, draped in robes of midnight-blue. He stepped smartly from under the mantle, straightening and wincing as something in his back audibly popped.

He swept the last bit of ash from his silver beard and vanished it with a wordless _Evanesco_ before turning to Hermione, still curled in her armchair. 'I apologize, my dear. I care very much about the results of your appointment with Mr. Zabini, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to suspend the pleasure of hearing them for the time being.'

'What have you found?' Snape asked instantly, sweet and milky tea extended in one hand. Dumbledore chuckled as he took the proffered cup.

'And you accuse me of omniscience?' he teased lightly.

'You would not consign something so potentially critical to the future unless there was something else even weightier that occupies the present. Minerva mentioned a few weeks ago that you were working on decoding one of the journals of the Ang'guin Weyr-'

'It seems that I should warn my wife about spoiling my surprises,' the older wizard sidestepped the question, but the sparkle suffusing the blue betrayed his undimmed delight as he drained his beverage in one long drink.

'She is correct, as are you. The journals of the Ang'guin Weyr have not revealed precisely what I hoped they might, but they did point to a rather interesting starting point.'

'What kind of a starting point, sir?' Hermione asked eagerly. Since the incident with Pansy on the stairs, she dreaded having another outburst – one when her bondmate would not be so readily at hand to contain the escaping elements. Her reaction to Zabini's spell today had reinforced her impatience.

'Not so much a 'what' as a 'who',' he replied maddeningly, and she could tell that Dumbledore was enjoying drawing this out. His audience were two of the castle's most voracious learners, and dangling a treat this size was a dangerous pastime. Either one of them might hex him from sheer impatience.

Snape's face said as much, for before the scathing remarks could burn his ears, the elder wizard lifted his good hand and continued. 'The term "Raw Magic" was apparently very much in dispute when the Ang'guin Weyr was recording its journals, and applied to many more branches of our art than I realized. As a result, the old powers have not died out as completely as most historians of the subject are given to believe. A thousand years ago, the last of those able to control such magic without a conductor died from an unknown illness. But not before one of them discovered a way to keep their world from collapsing – by making less capable wizards and witches able to reach the heights of magic the most powerful had obtained.'

'How?' Hermione's voice was breathless with anticipation, she was leaning forward in her chair. Even Snape felt his temper reining under the almost literally spellbinding effect of Dumbledore's storytelling.

'A length of wood, seamlessly grafted around a core of that which has innate, natural, magic.'

'Wands,' Snape murmured, hands steepled in front of his mouth.

'Just so. The magnificent power once directly controlled by wizards has been channelled into everyday use by the wands we wield. But of course, the vast majority of our kind, while gifted with _using _their wands, cannot actually _make_ them. A wandmaker needs a connection to the earth, and through that connection, one with the lives of those who provide the cores. Obviously, a gift beyond his talents with the instruments he creates.'

He paused expectantly, and was not disappointed as dots connected in identical constellations. 'Ollivander,' the pair whispered together.

Dumbledore smiled, eyes glittering like a teacher preparing to lavish praise on a precocious student. 'Precisely. True makers of wands express at least one facet of the talents denied most wizards and witches. I suspect our dear supplier Mr. Ollivander has one of them.'

~888~

'Fancy a little Gryffindor walking all the way down here by herself with no classes to go to. I wonder _what_ she could be doing.'

The sticky-sweet, nasal voice of Pansy Parkinson brought Blaise Zabini to full alert, yanking him out of his brooding. He had not yet managed to leave the classroom where he had met Hermione Granger for their alleged Potions practice. He wondered how long it would take her over-protective bodyguards to come running and idly twirled his wand in his fingers. Given their tempers, he was sure it would be a case of cursing first and asking questions later.

But Pansy's 'trouble' voice brought him to his feet. She never could resist a target – any target – and these days, the trend of the whole House was to pick fights instead of waiting for them, epitomizing the worst of their name.

Whoever her opponent was, he couldn't make out the reply, simply a quiet murmur. Probably one of the girls, then. Gryffindor boys carried their bravado before them like a shield.

His hand was on the cool brass doorknob before he hesitated. As the well-advertised future Mrs. Malfoy, Pansy carried more weight with their peers than most, which he couldn't have cared less about. But the worrying thing was that she also carried more weight with their parents, even with Lucius' current disgrace as an established Death Eater and Azkaban escapee.

Granger had made him no promises. His Head of House was quite likely one of the enemy. He had never liked the pug-faced girl, but he had also never once deigned to interfere in her life.

The sound of magic striking stone broke his internal stalemate. Throwing open the door, he dove wand-first into the corridor, rolling into a somersault as a jet of yellow streaked where his head would have been.

'Blaise! Come to join the fun?' It was not Pansy's voice. A swift glance towards the other end of the hall revealed four of his Housemates closing on a pale girl with wavy red hair. The hard, competent look she tossed back at him confirmed his suspicions. Ginevra Weasley.

'Actually, I came to advise you against this,' the half-Egyptian replied, flicking his wand to block the next spell streaking towards the Gryffindor witch. 'Snape's office is just in the next hall.'

'No worries there. What d'you think Silencing Charms are for?' Pansy sneered. 'Five against one,' she mock-pouted at Ginny, 'and no one to intercede.'

Sending an ironic thanks to Snape for their many lessons in wordless magic this year, Zabini sent a Stunner to slam Theodore Nott against the far wall. The unconscious boy's eyes remained wide open in surprise as Pansy's dark blue narrowed.

'I think you'll find that the odds are slightly better than that,' the dark boy countered quietly, joining a startled Ginny where she stood. 'Two against three a better match?'

Daphne Greengrass curled her lip contemptuously. 'Blood-traitor bewitched you, Blaise? You've always been so fastidious...it's unlike you to sully yourself.' Her shield barely rose in time to deflect Ginny's hex, and as it was, the lower portion of her calves erupted in boils.

'Oww!' she shrieked, batting at them with her hands and moaning. 'Ohhhhh – make them go away! They sting!'

'You can find the counter-curse yourself,' Ginny answered in disgust. 'Have fun with that. My brothers invented this one.'

'There are a lot of people who will be unimpressed by what you've done today,' Pansy said flatly as Anthony Goldstein began to back up slowly. With Nott down and Daphne huddling against a wall crying, he was clearly interested in nothing more than quitting the scene.

'No more than those who will condemn you, Parkinson.'

'And many who will praise him,' Ginny's voice cut across their threats cleanly. 'I told you I would think again before attacking.'

'Really?' Parkinson strode forward, coming close enough for her whisper to carry in the hallway. 'Hogwarts is the only place in the world, Weasel, where you are kept safe by old-man-Dumbledore's golden seal. And that's not going to last forever.'

Ginny neither blinked nor backed away. 'Thanks for the unnecessary tip. Though, oddly, I don't see him here now. And you're still not doing...anything.' She favoured the Slytherin with a cold smile as Parkinson pulled Greengrass to her feet and curtly ordered Goldstein to levitate Nott. Their mismatched steps had faded into the dungeons before the red-head turned to face her unexpected ally.

'Thanks,' she said hesitantly, the shadow of suspicion prominent in her eyes. He was suddenly struck by how slender she was. Tall for a girl, confident in her manner and graceful on her broomstick, he'd always had the impression that she was much bigger.

'You're welcome.'

'I don't suppose you'd tell me why you took my part against your classmates if I asked?'

'Not right now,' he replied seriously.

She cocked her head curiously, exposing her porcelain-white throat. 'I didn't think so.'

'I'll walk you back to Gryffindor Tower,' he offered.

'So that we can reverse positions and I have to protect you? I'll pass.'

'To make sure they won't try again. I don't know what it is, but they have something to prove this year. And they're spoiling to make an example out of someone from Potter's gang.'

'Yeah, I'm getting that. Hermione. Me. Thanks for your help,' she said, hoisting her bag higher on her shoulder. 'I did come down here for a real reason, but I'm thinking that maybe I'll wait until tomorrow.' Her dark brown eyes met his, concern overtaking distrust.

'Be careful. They probably aren't too happy with you right now.'

A Gryffindor giving him advice on how to deal with Slytherins. The world really _had _turned inside-out. 'I'm sure they aren't. I'll walk you back to the Great Hall.'

Her mouth opened, as if she might object, but she merely shrugged and turned her steps back towards the stairs that would take them to afternoon tea.

~888~

'But, Headmaster...' Hermione trailed off, excitement instantly stifled in her effort to remember something critical. Something about the aging wandmaker...

'Ollivander has disappeared,' Snape completed her half-formed objection. 'The Dark Lord is quite displeased with his abrupt departure.'

'As well he should be, if Tom is as obsessed as I suspect,' Dumbledore chuckled.

Obsidian eyes caught the blue and held. 'Is there any reason for my master to be aware of the connection Ollivander has to Raw Magic that you have discovered?'

'I can't think of one, no,' the elder man replied seriously. 'But wandlore is amongst our oldest disciplines, and one of the few continuing in the modern world, and we both know that he is smart enough to add that sum and at least investigate.'

'However, we now face the same problem,' Snape added impatiently. 'If we have no knowledge of his whereabouts-'

'He is no longer located in Diagon Alley,' the headmaster interrupted cheerfully. 'That does not mean that _I _am not aware of where he is.'

'Headmaster...' The professor's teeth were gritted, and a hot flow of impatience was surging in Hermione's mind.

'You really must learn to exercise some patience, my boy,' Dumbledore observed dryly. 'Why do you think I have been delaying all these weeks? As a matter of fact, Mr. Jeremiah Ollivander is seated in my office right now.'

He had scarcely finished the sentence before the fire blazed green with Floo powder, and Snape was stepping towards the flames. An ancient hand thrust out to stop him.

'I believe it would be more advantageous for him to come here, Severus. Please, allow me.' His head disappeared into the flames, and Hermione shivered, averting her eyes. She had watched Harry converse with Sirius this way last spring, but nothing could change the visual disconnect of seeing someone's head simply vanish while the animate body remained behind, gesturing in rhythm with unheard words.

The groomed white beard swept back out of the fireplace, and Dumbledore straightened, this time cracking his neck. 'He will be down in a moment,' he announced comfortably. The instant he said it, the second whirling shape in five minutes began to grow, and the aged proprietor of _Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands_ was ducking from under the mantle.

'Quite a smooth ride you have in this school, Albus,' he said softly. 'Not at all bumpy like the Alley Network.'

'I find that the standard of teaching drops if my colleagues are afraid of being rattled to death in a fireplace,' Dumbledore replied easily. He was at the sideboard, deftly scooting Snape aside as he reached for the kettle. 'Tea, Jeremiah?'

'Please.' The silver eyes that Hermione had not seen since coming from his shop, clutching her brand-new wand at the age of eleven, were trained on her, studying her impassively, as if she were a unique specimen to be catalogued in every intimate detail. The intensity of his study made her uncomfortable.

'Hermione Granger. Vine wood and dragon heart-string. Ten-and-three-quarters inches. Flexible – but not too much so. If I believe half of what I hear, it has been serving you well.'

She ducked her head in a nod of uncertain gratitude as the shining gaze shifted to her bondmate. 'Severus Snape.' The silver shone, as of the irises were glowing. 'Blackthorn and phoenix feather. Thirteen inches. Stiff as a new-hewn board. An adaptable combination...but perhaps not enough to include the new facets of your talent?'

'The headmaster intimated that you might be capable of leading us down that path yourself,' Snape responded, surprising Hermione with the quiet respect in his tone. The simmering impatience that had threaten to tumble over his employer had by no means vanished, and she could feel the iron discipline ruthlessly squashing his desire to pick up the smaller wizard by the front of his robes and shake answers from him.

'Leading? Good heavens no, Professor.' Ollivander gave a reedy laugh. 'Observe.' He held up his palm, blowing into it gently. For a moment, nothing happened, and then a faint, gilded tornado ghosted upwards from his palm. Snape felt Ether stir within him, responding to the nearness of a match. Gold snapped curiously from his fingertips and he hesitantly lifted his hand, repeating Ollivander's blowing gesture.

The result was like a falcon trying to play with a moth. Wind gusted eagerly from the Slytherin's body, tearing down his arm and bursting out in the radiant lines of a whistling breeze. In an instant, it had completely encircled Ollivander's demonstration, batting at the small storm. The papers on his desk were fluttering madly, anchored by a sorely-tested Sticking Charm, and even the full ink bottles had begun to inch perilously towards the edge.

The aging wandmaker smiled. 'As you can see, my technique will be insufficient for you. Thank you, Albus,' he said, accepting a bronze-rimmed teacup with his other hand. 'Imagine trying to control a roomful of dynamite with an _Aguamenti _and you'll get the general idea of how effective I can be as a teacher.'

'But Severus did _make _something just now,' Hermione argued, watching the wind slowly dying down, the sound of flapping parchment ceasing. 'For the first time.'

'Wind reacted to wind. What he made was uncontrolled. Without purpose. Without need. Not a particularly useful thing to have produced,' Ollivander countered. 'I cannot _teach_ you. What Albus did was convince me to show you the place where you can learn.'

'Did I?' Dumbledore asked pleasantly. 'I seem to recall a conversation along rather different lines, Jeremiah.'

'You know better than to insist upon something so ridiculous as the blind leading the blind. This would be a worse insult – the blind leading the seeing. No, Albus,' a stick-thin finger waggled in front of the headmaster's nose. 'You know nothing of this magic. I know next to nothing. I will lead your horses to water – but they must ford the stream themselves.' The peculiar regard came their way again. 'Forgive the unflattering metaphor.'

'What place?' Snape asked, pursuing the relevant point.

'The Nexus,' Ollivander replied simply, as if this provided sufficient explanation.

'The-?'

'Nexus? Where?' Dumbledore pressed, cutting off the young wizard. 'I was unaware that we had one in Britain.'

'Why, Albus, you surprise me. With your penchant for owning all kinds of rarities most wizards would kill for and that remarkable brain of yours, I was sure you would have guessed by now,' the wandmaker answered, and Hermione nearly laughed aloud at the total delight on Ollivander's face. It was a rare day that anybody pulled one over on Albus Dumbledore, and after suffering from his manipulations this year, she was gratified to see an utterly stupefied look on the usually knowing features.

'What better way to encourage young, untrained and weaker magic to develop than to put the wielders directly over the source?'

'Source?' Snape tried again, with equally little success.

'Hogwarts. It's – it's underneath the school, isn't it? In Founders' Hall, the birthplace of the institution-' a swift glance from blue to silver eyes, confirming the truth, and it was the eldest wizard's turn to act with precipitous haste. He was out the wooden doors of the office before the rest of them had risen.

Ollivander's quiet laugh was the only answer to greet two puzzled faces. 'I suspect your dear headmaster has a theory that he had set out to confirm. Let us follow him.'

~888~

Their first several hundred yards merely took them deeper into the dungeons, torches still dancing merrily at their regular intervals.

Hermione focussed on moving silently. She had allowed the two men to leave before her, Disillusioning herself before following. To be seen in the company of her spiky Defence professor would have required an explanation, but one that easily fell within the bounds of the believable. She had no wish to stammer her way through the lies that would be necessary if any of her peers saw her with such an eccentric pair.

But as they advanced, her attention was increasing drawn to their surroundings. The stone floor started slanting gently downwards and the granite blocks that comprised the make-up of the school's floors, walls, and ceilings got larger. Ducking under an arch that tingled with magic in the wake of Dumbledore's passing, the walls around the trio grew rougher, eventually giving way to tunnels that looked as if they had been chiselled out of natural caverns, the stone around them darkening to a grey that was almost black, torches giving way the light of two wand tips. There were no portraits, tapestries or any other form of the decoration that positively saturated Hogwarts' upper levels.

Mentally flipping the pages of _Hogwarts, A History_, Hermione wondered why this part had been so assiduously left out. From the dry words of one of her favourite tomes, one would assume that the school ended with the dungeons where she had taken Potions for so many years. There was no mention in the text of the rabbit warren they were now weaving through, ducking right and left as Ollivander steered them, the headmaster still so far ahead they couldn't see him. She realized she was shivering when a rash of goose bumps broke out from shoulder to wrist, and in front of her, her bondmate stopped, the many layers of his professional clothing offering him no protection against her physical reaction, and the response it triggered in him. Snape deftly unfastened his over-cloak and turned, eyes scanning the black hallway. 'Miss Granger? I believe it will be quite safe for you to remove the charm now.' A moment later, the young woman appeared a few feet in front of him. He silently extended her the garment.

_You will not be cold?_she asked hesitantly.

_I live in these dungeons. Take it._

Hermione crept forward gratefully, reaching for the heavy wool with a shy glance at the tall wizard, doing her best to ignore Diagon Alley's wandmaker and his curious glance. 'It will be more comfortable for both of us if you are not shaking to the bone,' he answered her look aloud with his patented logic, but a shadow of warmth brushed through both eyes and mind, and she could feel his eyes drop to her belly, worry for her well-being extended to the growing life there.

She swung the heavy cloth around her, the unexpected weight almost pulling it from her shoulders as frozen fingers fumbled with the ornate clasp. Even through her numbed nose, she could smell him as the folds layered around her. The threads of the cloak were permeated with his sweat, his soaps, the ink that stained his fingers, and the constant clash of potions ingredients, so many and mixed she would have been hard-pressed to name a single one.

As silver caught on silver, securing it about her shoulders, she suddenly heard Lavender's bright voice. She had heard the other girl confiding to Parvati how much she loved wearing Ron's cloaks – literally wrapping herself in his smell. Though Ron had blushed so hard when he heard this that his ears had gone bright red, Hermione had noticed that her roommate never seemed at a loss for one of her favourite garments.

Lavender was right. The feeling of being submerged in her bondmate brought an unnamed peace and a sense of belonging, of rightness. As long as her life included this assault of scents-

'Your cheeks are still pale,' he murmured, one finger hovering under her eye, reluctant to touch under the scrutiny of a stranger.

'I'll be all right if we hurry,' she said quietly, aware that she was grinding her teeth together to keep herself from chattering. Her body was warmer, but her neck and face still stung with cold.

'How much farther, Mr. Ollivander?'

The older wizard closed his eyes, as if seeking their destination with an unnamed sense. 'Perhaps a few hundred feet,' he finally answered. 'I hope Albus has waited for us.' 'Then let us cross the distance quickly,' Snape urged him, and the shorter man immediately set a pace that kept Hermione at a jog to keep up. Two hundred yards later, they made the right turn demanded by the unyielding rock to meet another open arch, the rough stone softened with an almost-undisturbed blanket of dust. The corner that the headmaster's fingers had brushed retained a perfect imprint – as if the undisturbed centuries were recording the impertinence of his passing.

Dumbledore stood just inside, sweeping sleeves nearly kissing the ground. 'Ah, Albus. So good of you to linger,' Ollivander said cheerfully, crossing the threshold.

'Hogwarts has a magic that obeys its own rules – some of which vast quantities of time spent wandering around after midnight have allowed me to learn,' the headmaster assured him, though his blue eyes glittered with impatience at their tardiness. 'Only the current Head of School, and those who accompany him, can enter this part of our grounds. And as I will shortly be in need of your assistance, waiting seemed the prudent thing to do.'

'A wise precaution, all things being equal,' the wandmaker agreed. He gazed into the yawning dark of a low-ceilinged, narrow passage. 'Shall we?'

'By all means.' Both Snape and Dumbledore had to duck their heads to fit into the tiny space, just wide enough for them to walk single-file. Behind them, Hermione heard the grating protest of stone-on-stone as the entrance sealed itself away from prying eyes, leaving them only the light of their wands as guides on the treacherously slick slope. As the low ceiling closed over her head, Hermione felt pressure bearing down on her, on all of them, and was suddenly reminded of another black hallway...a single-lane road ending in a door to disaster...

She shivered as the polished obsidian marble of the Department of Mysteries replaced their present, coarse path. Dolohov's vicious smile as he loosed the curse...Lucius Malfoy's icy voice as he bent her neck back in Diagon Alley..._'Beg, bitch,'_...the pallor of Harry's face and Ginny's numb whisper..._ 'Ron's been poisoned...'_

It was likely stumbling into a nightmare, only to find the current too strong to resist as memory leapt callously from fear to terror to pain. The witch blindly reached behind her, seeking the comfort she felt hovering there, grasping for the long-fingered hand that rose to clasp her shoulder in an impersonal touch appropriate for the teacher he was.

_It is a ward, a guardian of this space. The memories it recalls are not part the present. Fight its power. Anchor yourself. You are at Hogwarts. Nothing here will hurt you..._came his quiet encouragement through the warm palm squeezing against her back.

She shook her head against the unwanted memories, as if she could spill their silver sheen across the dark floor. By a conscious force of effort, she focussed her eyes on the irregular rock guiding her ever-downwards. _Left, right, left, avoid the one-foot hole, is that an ash widow web on that wall? What could a spider eat down here...?_ Her mind supplied steady, stream-of-consciousness chatter, subduing the tension that had rushed into her blood.

As soon as the panic began to fade, the soothing hand on her shoulder fell away. Though her skin prickled as cool air replaced warm flesh, she did not turn to her bondmate. Instead, she kept her gaze on the majestic train of Dumbledore's deep blue robes and glowing wand-tip, glancing down to keep herself from slipping on the granite as they marched deeper.

The figure in front of her stopped abruptly, arms flung wide in warning. Peering under them, the witch could see a sheer angle dropping away before them as the slope gave way to carved stairs that spiralled into the dizzying dark. Their uneven blackness shone dully, as through they had been made when the world was new – crafted for a god, or as a passage between worlds. A short pause, and then, carefully setting one heeled boot in front of the other, the headmaster continued their descent.

As the sole of Hermione's foot landed on the first stair, a pulling sensation took up space in her abdomen, just above her child, urging her to hasten as much as she dared on the precipitous steps. The tickling heat she had come to recognize as Flamma woke suddenly, tugging impatiently and making her wish that she had wings so that she might fly to their destination.

_Wanting. Seeking. Needing. Desire. Hunger. Home._

Behind her, she could feel the pressure Ether and Aqua were exerting on her bondmate, the same sensuous yearning filling his blood. It was both like the madness that had burned in them first term and wholly different, consuming in its intensity, the focus entirely new. It was not the lean body she was so aware of, or even the presence of Severus Snape as such, but the blaze of magic that had wrapped itself around his essence.

Whatever their goal, they were rapidly closing on it. The tug became an ache. _Light of lights. Beginning of beginnings. Home..._

And as suddenly as they began, the stairs came to an end, leaving them standing before a sheer, unbroken wall of rock.

Dumbledore's back was to them as they halted, sleeves sweeping like massive wings as he hastily ran his wand over the stone, his silent '_Tergeo'_ draining centuries of dirt from the surface. Dust crystals flashed in the wand light and slender lines began to scroll over the granite as if sketched by an invisible hand.

While the pattern was emerging, Flamma began singing in Hermione's blood, the doubled impatience of a longing made that much more painful by the nearness of its goal. Guided by the magic that bent her to its will instead of obeying her commands, she stepped forward, ducking under the heavy woollen sleeves of her headmaster to plant her palm firmly in the middle of the curling contours. Dumbledore jumped away from the wall as crimson fire flared in the rock, the arches of the ancient symbol enflamed and revealed by her touch.

As she spread her fingers in the upper left quadrant, flame exploded in recognition, blistering through her with single-minded fierceness. Emotions so primal they seemed almost without name swallowed the bonded pair whole, their frail human frames shaking as cascades of magic poured through every nerve.

Her body locked, shoulders drawn back, knees rigid as fire tore through and around her, searing her muscles, burning her eyes. Rebellion rose in her as she struggled with the pain of consecration, her literal baptism-by-fire. She had not asked for this terrible, unchecked, incinerating power. She did not want it. Her body, so fragile, so human with its flesh, blood and bone, was not conditioned to the harshness of a magic that had shaped the world. It could not contain this rage—

_Let yourself go with it. Fight it and it may devour you_. She could barely make out her bondmate's mental voice through the inferno, feeling only that fire was claiming him even as it cleansed her...

_Let yourself go_...she willed her clenched muscles to relax, bidding her body to melt into the flame, to let it scorch every surface it could touch, purifying her. As the strain disappeared, Flamma gentled, and she could feel the flow to and from the wall, giving her intimacy with the foundation stones themselves.

The element snapped its warning, the respite brought by connection with the wall swiftly fading. 'Water!' she gasped as the deep, blood-coloured flame licked her skin. Synchronized with her cry, Snape's long form reached the wall, bony fingers stretched out to splay across the upper right section of the ancient design.

The wizard gasped, stiffening as the element of water came streaming through him, the magic previously rejoicing in its freedom funnelling through him with such force that Hermione felt her breathing grow ragged, her lungs dampening with her partner's. Water raged through him, overflowing the bounds of his body, drowning him and marking him. By an effort of sheer will, Snape made himself relax into the deluge, floating instead of fighting. The elements had proven to be too strong to deny, whether gift or curse. If he did not give in to it, water would occupy his body by force. The blue-green strands of magic surged down his arm in one thrust, through his hand and into the rock. The waves ignited in cerulean curves, throwing relief on the dimmed sign of Terra beneath it.

'Ether,' they breathed, or thought, or felt, in unison. Snape blindly brought his left hand, still shaky in the aftermath of water's fury, to rest on the lower-left symbol. Like the zephyr that had carried him into the greenhouse months ago, the free-flowing element lifted him from his feet, dangling him above the rough floor. His only contact with earth the granite he gripped with his fingers, Ether flowed greedily into the dark surface, his body the conduit as it caressed the stone. As the balls of his feet found the pressure of ground, the curving swirls of the pattern caught the shimmering gold of wind, tangling eagerly with the crimson magic boiling above it.

'Terra.'

It was her turn again, and Hermione did not know whether she felt fear or relief. Flamma had nearly flayed her bones. But her right arm lifted effortlessly, finding the grooves illuminated by Aqua in the final quadrant of their joining.

Earth's greeting was not like that of the other three. Instead of an eruption, a placid wave rose from the very base of the young woman's spine, submerging her body slowly, as if she were entering a warm pool one step at a time. It layered over itself, pitching and reclining, power inching towards its goal, passing her shoulder blades...creeping into her upper arm...pushing past her elbow...tingling at her wrist...tip-toeing out her fingers...

Brown and green added their hues to the brilliant display, the circle of Earth cutting through the corners of her siblings, including them all in her embrace. For an instant, Hermione twisted to look up at her bondmate, hands still firmly planted on the stone as they drew shuddering breaths, sweat curling the wisps of hair around her face and tickling between their shoulders.

When their eyes met, their minds blew open. It was so instant, so complete that the wizard was uncertain where he began and she ended. Here, there was no peeling of layers as was required in Legilimency. There was no search through labyrinthine corridors. There were immediate memories of reading books by flashlight under a rose-patterned quilt...a dormitory draped in red and gold...a child's adoration of Minerva McGonagall...the brutality of the shock of her pregnancy...

Another mind bubbled in. And shattered his world.

It formed no words. It had no thoughts. Colours were its only indicators – violent splatters of unbridled emotion. It was laughing, saturating his mental landscape in a yellow the tone of fresh-spun sunshine. There was no fear, no anxiety, only fullness, a pure eagerness for life that he had never before felt.

It was not Hermione. He knew the nuances of her thoughts, and though his mate's mind shared some part of these pristine feelings, they were eclipsed by the effort of living through a war.

The happiness that frolicked around the corners of his brain now was married to the wind breezing in his blood and the water rolling in his nerves, the fire burning in Hermione's bones and the earth shifting in her muscles. The elements and the source of this nameless joy were inextricably linked.

When Hermione's vision cleared, she discovered that she was still staring into ink-black eyes – but the gaze held little of the man she knew. Heat had replaced cold, wonder – cynicism, joy – pain.

'_Freezing. Like sewer tunnels_,' she remembered Harry's flat criticism. _'I don't think he even knows _how _to smile.'_

_His life has given him so few occasions to show such a face...and many to hide it_, she thought in silent reply to the memory of Harry's bitter mouth.

But even though she had known for months that Snape's hard facade cloaked a depth of passion few possessed, nothing could have prepared her for seeing the dumbstruck look on her lover's face. He looked as if a narrow door had opened, not onto the broom closet he expected, but into a vast world of unexplored and untouched beauty.

'That was-' he hesitated. The halting, uncontrolled baritone was nothing like the polished one he used on his students.

'Our child.' The mass of feeling that did not touch her voice soaked their connection, pride and hope...and sorrow.

And threading through it, humming with its own power, came the purple hue of a world before sunrise, an unsullied, excited elation, and a burst of love that exploded on the horizon of both brains in a brilliant, orange nova.


	10. The Wandmaker's Legacy

Disclaimer: Not mine. Respects paid.

The Wandmakers' Legacy

_June, 1998_

'My Lord.' Heavy robes pooled in graceful, tar-coloured ripples on the rich green carpet as Snape dropped to one knee in front of the unnaturally pale wizard, mask still firmly in place until his master requested its removal.

'Severus.' Voldemort's voice, warped by the destruction of so many souls on the extensive journey to permanently mutilate his own, could never be warm. But it could be approving, congratulatory and sometimes even wistful. The spy was relieved to hear the first tone now. 'Rise. Discard that triviality – we know who you are.' Snape rose smoothly, one hand unfastening the cool facial covering with the ease of many years of practice. He did not glance towards the room's third occupant, knowing that Lucius Malfoy sat comfortably in an armchair, watching the exchange like an extremely refined bird of prey.

'How is your bondmate?' The skeletal hand gestured for the one-time professor to seat himself, and the spy acquiesced, folding long limbs and too-slender frame into the velveteen. He schooled himself not to bark a laugh at the polite, conversational question that reminded him so of Albus Dumbledore. The Dark Lord seldom enquired into the lives of his followers in so gentle a fashion, his accomplishments as a Legilimens so legendary that they either volunteered the information or he took it without their noticing.

But Voldemort's whims included the occasional display of respect towards those who held an exalted place in his unfolding Dark Order, and as none currently stood higher than Severus Snape, he was most often on the receiving end of such courtesies.

'She is as well as can be expected, my lord,' he replied quietly. 'Still assured of my faithfulness to her precious Potter and that old bat, McGonagall.'

Voldemort laughed, and Snape met Lucius' gaze for the first time, storm-grey and midnight betraying the shiver they both repressed at the chilling sound. Even when their master was in good humour, his chuckle sent slivers of ice sliding down his followers' spines.

'Excellent. Schoolgirls are so easy to manipulate. And your child?'

'He is only nine months old, my Lord, but I am assured that his various incomprehensible noises and lack of coordination are considered normal development.' As this, even Lucius could not contain his snort of laughter. His rival's dislike of the pre-teen students at Hogwarts was legendary – the idea of Severus Snape holding an infant was almost side-splitting.

'Indeed.' The red eyes sharpened, signalling the end of their pleasantries. 'I was most disturbed to hear news of the dragons that Arthur Weasley's second son brought with him from Romania. My...other source...was unable to reveal their numbers. Surely the Mudblood must know?'

Snape very carefully controlled his limbs as Voldemort finished his question, forcing himself to maintain the appearance of utter relaxation, even as his mind quickly separated that which could be told to his dark master and that which must, at all costs, remain secret.

His eyes flicked to Lucius' again, only to see a smug smile playing around the aristocrat's mouth. Lucius, as the one to forge the initial alliance, was the only man in contact with the other spy placed so highly in the Order's ranks, the traitor who endangered his very existence. It was one of their constant, personal battles, waged viciously within the camp of Voldemort's Circle of Pure-Bloods. Snape desperately needed the identity of the other informant, or all the Order's planning would be for naught, their every move betrayed before it could be made.

But Voldemort was nothing if not clever. None of his spies knew who the others were, their contacts with large numbers of their fellows intentionally more limited than that of the Death Eaters who performed the jobs of soldiers. Less than eighteen of his comrades knew he spied on the Order, and even fewer Order members knew he reported on the Dark Lord.

_Helped, of course, by the fact that amongst those who do know, some of them don't believe_. 'My Lord already has news of the dragons?' He feigned a small, regretful smile. 'I had hoped to bring you those tidings myself. They number approximately one-hundred-ten, and are currently camped on a moor in Hogwarts' general vicinity.'

He hesitated here, waiting for the faint tension in the room to peak, the other two hanging on his words as if there should be more, and said, 'My Lord, I would beg you to reconsider keeping the identity of your second informant in the upper levels of the Order from me. There are so many mistakes one can make in that precarious position...I am in the perfect place to offer guidance-'

'Since we all know how well you thrive on "rearing the next generation",' Lucius sneered. 'Thank Merlin Hogwarts closed – I thought we'd never hear the end of your moaning about dunderheads and exploding cauldrons.'

The saturnine wizard didn't turn to face his tormentor, keeping his eyes locked on the speculative crimson. 'A classroom full of idiots not paying attention is quite different than assisting someone through treacherous waters to serve you, my Lord.' Mentally, his dismay sharpened. He had not assumed that it would be one of the younger generation, but in the pureblood's haste to belittle him, Lucius had inadvertently given him a hint.

Which meant yet more soul-rending doubt for his bondmate and her friends. The information Voldemort was receiving was highly classified. If it was one of the witches or wizards he'd taught in recent years, there were only a half-dozen possibilities as to who it could be, and none of those options would be better than the rest.

'You disappoint, Severus.' Gone was the safety net of approval as the Dark Lord stared at his servant, eyes narrowing. 'Are you playing games with your master after all this time?' Snape tensed, practically drowning in the satisfaction rolling from Lucius in waves from his other side. 'You know precisely why I have never cared to part with that information to you or to anyone. And you have left something out. My source told me you spent a half-hour closeted with the Weasley who brought this cavalry, giving him guidance as to how to strike at our forces. Do you not wish to disclose to me what you told? Has Bellatrix-' the name dripped scorn, his one-time favourite now disgraced '-been correct?'

Snape thought quickly, knowing that his answer had to come immediately. That this spy was also reporting on him was damning. 'No, my Lord. I did not include those details because I deemed them of little importance. Naturally, I directed the boy to fly against the giants – a primary school student could have come to that conclusion, and I assumed that we would offer our allies flame-retardant spells and possibly fly the Dementors into the Order's force. Dragons cannot feel, but they will all have human riders and therefore be easy to neutralize.'

The rage working towards murder checked itself as scarlet studied ebony, and Snape pushed forward select parts of his meeting with Charlie Weasley, allowing Voldemort to ascertain the truth for himself. Anger vanished in an instant as Snape's mind met with his master's approval and the Dark Lord nodded.

'Your lordship did indicate that we would be planning the final assault tonight, and I was going to advise you then,' he delicately pressed his advantage.

Voldemort reclined once more in his seat, making the room appear, for just an instant, as though it were nothing more than an informal gathering of old, wealthy friends that one would expect to see sipping at some rich, ancient cognac and breathing rings of smoke from cigars.

The illusion vanished as the Dark Lord met the unwavering gazes of each of his followers in turn, a joyless smile curling the edges of his non-existent lips. 'We have waited almost too long. I do not wish for the Order of the Phoenix, rag-tag and boy-led though it is, to gather more allies.'

'We strike at Solstice.'

~888~

_March, 1997_

Flamma and Terra flowed from the rock back into Hermione in streams of vermillion and sparkling dirty jade. She breathed it in through her mouth and nose, feeling the magic licking eyes and ears and caressing her arms, raising goose bumps on sensitive skin as it soaked back into her body. The arms of her bondmate on either side of her were washed in strands of woven gold and Pacific-ocean-blue, the criss-cross of threads visible in loops of infinity, wrapping her own figure-eight.

For a moment, her body flamed with itchiness, as if she had been attacked by a swarm of mosquitoes. Hermione took a deep breath to restrain her fingers from lifting to scratch at her arms, neck and face. If she started, she'd draw blood before she stopped.

The young woman's mind suddenly stopped on the moment in the greenhouse – had it truly only been five months ago? – where the same prickly sensation had travelled up and down her nerve endings after her first orgasm.

_Did it?_ She blushed, heat rushing to her face as she remembered, too late, that she was completely open to her bondmate, and he was reading her thoughts as easily as he knew his own. But she found the favour returned as she was suddenly viewing her own naked and slippery body through his memory, watching him delve into himself, searching for a similar reaction—

As his memory-self came, head thrown back in a position of total vulnerability, she felt the same whisper in his skin, a gentle bubbling in his blood rising to meet hers, adding another seal to their bond.

Like the visible manifestation of their power, the nearly unbearable crawling feeling faded after a few moments, trailing a deep contentment and an odd sense of chaste sanctity, as if they had been consecrated by the unexpected ritual.

_Sought, found. Hunger, sated. Desire, quenched. Home._

Abruptly, the wall barring their passage vanished. In the place of rough granite, there now stood a pair of massive oak double doors, easily the size of those in the Great Hall. Inscribed on each door were two symbols in intricate detail, a decorative representation of the power that sealed and protected the place within.

For a moment, the four wand-holders stood, stock-still and silent. It was Mr. Ollivander's steady, quiet voice that broke the hold that surprise had on them.

'The magic has called you. Answer it. Let it conduct you. This is a world for which you have been made. Open the doors, children.'

~888~

A schoolbag dropped inelegantly next to his feet. Blaise Zabini deliberately took his time lifting his eyes, scornful brows drawn together as he gazed into the face of his Housemate.

'Do you need something, Parkinson?' He could feel the eyes of the room centring on them, breaths being held as confrontation charged the air. The rumour mill had made short work of his inexplicable actions that afternoon, but Pansy was the first to speak to him.

'What are you playing at?' she hissed, too angry to engage in her usual games. 'Defending Weasley's brat sister? Has no one clued you in to the fact that she's Potter's favourite bedtime toy? And what _that _potentially means?'

'Rather you should ask whether I give a damn about what it might mean. I'm not stupid, Parkinson. A statement I would not so readily make about you in light of your recent actions.'

'You-!' her hand scrambled for her wand, only to find herself facing the business end of his.

'Have you forgotten how widely hated we are right now?' he whispered harshly. 'We were never popular, but the second rise of the Dark Lord has made it worse than ever. Now, if you go around hexing every Gryffindor that gets in your way, _especially _those connected with Potter, who's going to get the short end of the stick?'

'Outside of Hogwarts, it's not like they matter.'

'But we're _in_ Hogwarts, Parkinson. And you are going to be worse than useless in every way if you're expelled.' He sat back in his chair, assuming a deliberately aloof pose in contrast to the intensity of his gaze. 'Bide your time. Wait for it. The day will come when neither walls nor Dumbledore protect them. And you will be able to do anything you wish.'

'And your offer to tutor Granger?'

So that had also made it on the gossip circuit. Zabini restrained a sigh. 'Know thy enemy. She's one of the principles.' Almost absent-mindedly, he moved a bishop up a square. 'First they must trust you.' He let his nearly-black eyes lock with her dark blue. 'Then you can strike.'

~888~

'A Nexus.'

'And what, precisely, _is _a Nexus? I believe we skipped over the details entirely. The headmaster was in such a hurry to get here.'

'I had a hunch to follow, Severus,' Dumbledore replied in his most deceptively mild tone. 'And as your magic has so spectacularly proven me correct, I think it was worth it. Now we have plenty of time for Jeremiah to explain everything you want to know.'

A soft snort, and the silver eyes glowed with amusement. 'Really, Albus. With you in possession of most of their surviving documents, I wonder how you expect _me _to be the one tendering explanation.'

'I wouldn't dare presume I know more than a man with hands-on experience,' Dumbledore deftly demurred.

'As fascinating as it is to listen to the two of you snip at each other, Miss Granger and I could use some enlightenment. Preferably this century.' The impatience Snape had mastered in his office loaded their bond and lent a barely-controlled bite to his voice.

There was nothing of his smile left when Ollivander's gaze settled on the Defence Professor. 'You doubtless have no desire to hear this, but passion suits you. It is necessary for the magic.'

Snape's eyes narrowed as Hermione smothered a smile. While she knew that none of her friends would ever dream of applying the word 'passionate' to their cold teacher, the old wandmaker had clearly had no difficulty seeing through his armoured layers. 'Albus has told me that amongst your many similarities, you share an insatiable hunger for knowledge. Please keep in mind, therefore, that much of what I can tell you is not traceable in books and cannot be verified by any other sources. Much of it is legend, handed down orally through the descendents of those who retain a remnant of the skill you now possess in such great quantity.'

'Anything you can tell us,' Hermione purposefully gentled her voice even as her bondmate's testiness rose with Ollivander's disclaimer, 'anything at all, would be helpful, Mr. Ollivander. We are both at a complete loss in regards to Raw Magic, and it has already proven...problematic.'

'Your fight with one of your peers,' the older wizard sighed. 'Albus told me that you were running the risk of either exposure or an irredeemable accident.' The young woman tilted her head, lips pressed together.

'To begin at the beginning-'

A spasm of pain lanced through Hermione's back, and both she and Snape stiffened as she cut off her gasp, his hand rising as if to support her. 'If this is going to take some time, might I suggest sitting down?' he asked tetchily.

They glanced about them. The doors had swung open to reveal a hall of massive proportions, a domed ceiling so far above them that the Quidditch pitch could have fit inside – stands, hoops and all. In the middle of the hall, directly under the peak of the dome, were four tables. They were huge, round and, even from this distance, clearly draped in the four colours of the Houses upstairs. Ringing them were wooden benches, which seemed too rickety to risk.

'Of course,' Dumbledore said hastily, and twitched his wand to bring four over-stuffed armchairs into existence at the entrance of the vast space. 'Forgive a scatterbrained old man, Hermione. Please, sit.'

'Out of curiosity, Albus, can you create anything that _isn't_ in a violently bright colour?' Ollivander asked idly as he sank onto a sunshine-yellow cushion.

'The headmaster is incapable of allowing one's dignity to remain intact when he has the chance to impinge,' Snape assured the wandmaker dryly as he sank into the bright purple chair behind him.

'Severus, that's hardly a charitable-'

'The beginning,' Hermione interrupted pointedly, ignoring the byplay between the three men.

'As you wish. The beginning...

'The story as I was taught it begins with the birth of the world itself. Magic was imbued in the very minerals and elements that form the planet and, like all living things, it has evolved as eons pass.' He smiled as they traded startled glances. 'Different magics have suited the world at different stages of its development. There is no way of knowing what shapes magic took before men began recording its existence, but I do know that the arts used in antiquity differ greatly from what we use today. The power you have so unexpectedly manifested is one of these arts, one of the greatest.

'You called it Raw Magic a moment ago. The term, while not incorrect, is extremely vague. _All_ magic is raw power in some form or another. A baby Summoning things from across the room is Raw Magic. An uncontrolled outburst of power – in passion or anger – is Raw Magic. Blood Magic is raw, as are all the roots of the Dark Arts. Binding Magic is raw, and so are Love Magics.'

The steady gaze from shining silver eyes evaluated them neutrally. 'Your specific talent, wed to and triggered by an Unconscious Bond, is Earth Magic, also called feral magic, and is defined by the four elements that you have expressed. It is one of the oldest, obscurest and largely lost magics belonging to man. It is also amongst the most powerful, as you have undoubtedly discovered.

'This cavern, named Founders' Hall in the diaries of Rowena Ravenclaw and Helga Hufflepuff, is a Nexus. It is the central site of feral magic in the British Isles, where the lines of power that run through the Earth leak through the crust and become more accessible to those of us who live on the surface of the planet. This place was also home to the Order of the Ang'guin Weyr. When the society still existed.'

'Founders' Hall?' Black eyes darted to Dumbledore, who nodded gravely.

'It is not well-known enough to be a true myth, but the headmasters of this school have been searching for this site for generations. Prior to the construction of the castle, for most of the time that our founders were actually running Hogwarts, everything took place below ground, in this location. It is one of the reasons that the passages beneath the castle are so extensive. We are on the same subterranean level as the Chamber of Secrets and the passages that once hid the Philosopher's Stone.'

'But the doors are sealed. You needed us to gain access,' Snape said slowly, frowning. 'No one without our Earth Magic could enter.'

'True. This particular room was completely closed until about fifteen minutes ago. The last known occurrence of Unconscious Bonding happened roughly a thousand years ago,' his employer answered indirectly.

'One of the founders?' Hermione asked eagerly.

'Possible, but unknown. There is no record of such a thing, but it does mean that this magic was still alive when the school was created.'

'It was – but just barely,' Ollivander re-claimed his tale. 'Hogwarts came into existence _because_ Earth Magic was failing. Or rather, from a modern perspective, evolving.'

'Failing how?' Hermione pressed.

'You have felt the power that runs in your blood, that seems to pull at you, that guides and occasionally dictates your actions.' He could see the affirmative in their eyes. 'When have you ever felt such a strong connection to magic before?'

'When purchasing my wand,' Snape said cautiously after a moment's silence.

'Exactly,' smiled the wandmaker. 'Most human beings, even thousands of years ago, did not possess Earth Magic. Much of what could be called the magical population of the day capped their limited power with the ability to levitate small objects, light candles with a sweep of their hands and brew extremely simple potions. The talents of such a witch or wizard, after many years of practice, might equal the knowledge and abilities of any student who has completed the first-year curriculum.

'The notable exceptions were those witches and wizards who were members of the Order of the Ang'guin Weyr. They were a class that could control the elements, tapping the power of Earth itself, capable of almost limitless advance. They dedicated themselves to study, to expanding their knowledge of the magic that appeared without boundaries.

'They discovered the power of pure love, of sacrifice, of unconditional compassion. From those less savoury spun the Blood Rites now forbidden to us, and the foundations of Dark Magic now so old they are impossible to practice, like Soul-Splitting.'

The three exchanged swift looks, worry creasing the foreheads of the two men. _If the Dark Lord used _this _kind of magic..._

_He placed elemental wards around Harry in the Riddle House_, Hermione reminded her bondmate. _He seems to have some knowledge of such power_.

'And what happened to them?' Hermione asked into the loaded silence. There was no hoping that Ollivander had not noticed the current of tension that had run through them all with his last statement, but she was fairly certain that offering an explanation for their sudden lapse was also out of the question.

He gave her a curious stare before continuing. 'The magic changed. The severity of the power imbalance gradually began to even out. The normal population was bearing increasingly more children who expressed greater amounts of everyday magic, and the Order was finding fewer and fewer born with their prodigious abilities. Never a large society to begin with, over the course of three generations their numbers dwindled from roughly a thousand to just over one hundred.

'With the risk of losing centuries of work, they knew that something had to be done to preserve what they could before they died out all together.

'The members of the Order had never needed an intermediary to do their magic. They willed, or spoke, or gestured, and it simply came to pass. But they discovered that when they placed the right kind of conduit in the hands of a witch or wizard who possessed no Earth Magic, only a reasonable dose of the everyday variety, their power was amplified to an incredible degree. Enough to continue working with the magic that the Order feared would go extinct.'

'Wands. Wands are our intermediary,' Hermione pitched in swiftly, recalling Dumbledore's words in Snape's office.

'Exactly. Notice that you can cast some simpler spells without it, but all complicated magic requires the use of a wand. The first wandmaker set the precedents that have lasted for all the generations of wand making. The materials we use, the method – we let the kernel of the Earth Magic we still have running in our blood guide our creation of each wand.'

'In your blood...? You are a direct descendent of one of the Order?'

'Indeed. Unbeknownst to most, a much-weakened strain of Earth Magic survived, passed through blood from mothers to daughters and fathers to sons. The wandmakers have clung to this art, for it is the last thread that allows us to continue to create. It is also what gives us our edge. Our history tells us of the on-going debate regarding the secret to wandlore. It is a constant note of tension between other races – like the Goblins – and humanity. How do you suppose the Ministry has managed to keep it under lock and key for centuries? Earth Magic is acknowledged by all the magical races of the world. Without it, unicorns would not give me their hair, phoenixes would deny me their feathers, and dragon heart-string would flay my hands to the bone. It is Ether that directs my choices of wood, and helps me bridge the gap between customer and instrument.'

'And yet, it is not compatible with Earth Magic,' Snape said irritably, running long fingers through his hair.

'Naturally not. You have seen the instantaneous magic you have at your, admittedly tenuous, command. You have witnessed the strength of the elements. Forcing that through a wand – no matter how serviceable – is like asking the sunrise to fit in the flare of a candle. It simply cannot be done.

'But the sudden need to educate a larger population in a completely different way prompted the creation of Hogwarts. Magic became something nailed down – set, if you will, in stone. Formulas for teaching it were developed, re-worked, improved upon and advanced – but the idea that there was a "right" method for the passing of magical knowledge was born with this institution, and it has changed surprisingly little since our founding fathers strode these halls.'

'How did they know the Nexus was here? Why did they build over it?'

The unsettling gaze swept over them, lingering last on Dumbledore. 'The founders of Hogwarts were wielders of Earth Magic. They knew that even though their students, and the descendents of those students, would never feel its touch, the nearness of such power helps young witches and wizards mature into their magic more thoroughly.

'They were the last of their kind. With their deaths, the direct link between Earth and humanity closed. Until Albus approached me a few weeks ago regarding your peculiar gifts, it was thought impossible that it should be re-opened.'

'Which brings us to the million-Galleon question,' Snape said grimly, leaning forward in his atrocious chair. 'Why?'

'Necessity. There is much I do not know about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but the journal passages that I have read make it clear that justice and the maintenance of balance were two of the Order's most sacred duties. All things exist in balance, and if the scale tips too far one way or another, that equilibrium cannot be restored. Whatever You-Know-Who's power, his workings hearken back into magics men have long considered vanished. Earth and magic have responded as best they can. Though you only triggered the magic by contact with one another and the creation of your bond, you were both born with the magic to defend our world.'

'We know that Voldemort's studies have carried him farther in the path of evil than any before him,' Dumbledore added gently. 'I am equally certain that the techniques discovered or fashioned by the Ang'guin Weyr cannot be undone by normal magic. When I fail – as you know I will – Harry's determination, Minerva's knowledge and all the help of the Order of the Phoenix will not be able to un-make some of things Lord Voldemort has created.'

Snape surged to his feet, standing clad in his shirt-sleeves and black woollen trousers in the warm underground room. His face and voice were matched in grim determination.

'How do you recommend we begin?'

~888~

Ron wrinkled his nose at his Potions essay, scrawled a half-hearted conclusion and shoved it across the table, wet ink glistening like crude oil. 'Slughorn might be better than Snape, but I still hate writing essays.'

His best friend, sitting hunched at the end of the table, gave no indication that he had heard. Fingers were poring over slanted script, sometimes flipping the text to read it sideways, jotting occasional sentences on a piece of parchment trying to curl over on itself. Like Harry's practical experience over a cauldron, his essays were now littered with "stellar inspirations", as Slughorn's silver pen was so eager to proclaim. While Ron cared almost nothing for who carried the best grades in the class – it had never been him – even he was tiring of Slughorn's never-ending delight in the things that Harry hadn't – and couldn't – accomplish on his own.

'Have you thought of a way to get that memory?' he asked casually. The other boy shot him a glare, irritation glittering behind his frames.

'What, exactly, do you think I'm doing now?'

'Wasting time,' the red-head answered bluntly. 'Hermione's right, mate. You're not going to find whatever you need in there. He said last week that we'll be doing experimental potions in class tomorrow. Maybe you can make something that'll soften him up.'

'Fifty-seventh time lucky, you think?' Harry muttered, returning his focus to the pages.

Ron stared at him, a vial of liquid so golden it looked like condensed light glittering in his memory. 'Lucky. Harry...' he said slowly, and this time, the suppressed excitement in his voice made the other wizard's head rise. 'That's it. Get lucky.'

Non-comprehension flashed impatiently in green eyes. 'What d'you mean?'

'Use your lucky potion.'

'Brilliant!' Ginny announced from the armchair where her Ancient Runes texts were draped over the arms and winged back like beige scales rippling over scarlet skin. 'Why didn't we think of that before?'

'Felix Felicis?' Harry rolled the words out of his mouth hesitantly. 'I dunno...I was sort of saving it...'

'What for?' Ron asked urgently. 'What on earth is more important than this memory?'

'Your lives,' Harry replied instantly, green eyes meeting the blue and brown frankly. 'What if something happens? What if another one of you is poisoned? Or hurt like Katie? What if Voldemort attacks Hogwarts? There is so little of it, and it's so precious...' he shivered. 'I can't waste it on something so frivolous.'

'Harry, you've got to get that memory,' Ginny pressed as Ron sank back in his seat, surrendering. 'It's all about stopping Voldemort, isn't it? These terrible things – everything you fear – it all comes back to him.'

As Harry opened his mouth to further object, a sharp rapping on the window interrupted them. An owl's wings battered against the early-spring wind outside as Ginny leapt to the lattice and unhooked the lock. One of the school's large barn owls darted inside and settled on the back of Harry's chair with a hoot of thanks.

'He's got something,' Ron noted as the bird pointedly stuck out its leg to Harry. The dark-haired boy hurriedly untied the missive.

'Dumbledore?' Ginny asked tersely, sitting up straight in her chair.

Harry unfurled it, stared at it, and shook his head. 'No. Take a look.' Both siblings rose, flanking his chair to read a shaky scrawl over his shoulder.

_Dear Harry, Ron and Hermione,_

_Aragog died last night. Harry and Ron, you met him, and you know how special he was. Hermione, I know you'd have liked him. It would mean a lot to me if you'd nip down for the burial tomorrow evening. I'm planning on doing it round dusk, that was his favourite time of day. I know you're not supposed to be out that late, but you can use the Cloak. Wouldn't ask but I can't face it alone._

_Hagrid_

'He's mental,' Ron said wonderingly as they finished reading it. 'That thing told its mates to eat Harry and me. Told them to help themselves.'

'And the security risk is high. Unacceptably high.' Ginny slanted a glance at her boyfriend, knowing that his friendship with the half-giant prompted him to agree almost automatically.

Sure enough: 'We've been down to see him by night before.'

'But never over something like this,' his girlfriend objected firmly. 'If it were a matter of saving him-'

'I'd want to go even less,' her brother cut her off, shuddering. 'Believe me, being dead will have improved him a lot.'

'And anyway, tomorrow, you should use Felix and try for the memory from Slughorn, not go running after massive dead spiders.'

Harry's resolve teetered, then cracked. A decisive nod. 'I know. I s'pose Hagrid'll have to bury Aragog without us.'

'And the memory?' Ginny pressed flatly. Green eyes glowered at her, but she didn't back down. 'Harry-'

'All right! If I can't get Slughorn to talk in class, I'll take Felix tomorrow night and give it a go.'

~888~

'Sleep,' Ollivander's final admonishment came as he was stepping into the green fire. An exhausting forty-five minutes of meditation had followed their impromptu history lesson, and Hogwarts' cleverest witch was more than a little grumpy. After Neville's accident, Pansy's attack and the magnificent power that had opened the ancient hall, Hermione and Snape had expected more miraculous demonstrations to come tumbling from their fingers.

Flamma had conceded to spit a few desultory sparks and Ether had chilled them briefly. Neither Aqua nor Terra had stirred to life at all.

Standing in Snape's office with their unexpected teacher, she saw a wizened smile cracking the tired face. 'Do not expect too much, too quickly. Just as a magical child will perform difficult feats in times of dire need and then struggle to turn a matchstick into a needle, so, too, will this power take taming. Beware of your own impatience – intelligence tends to carry it as part of the price.'

'Thank you for coming, sir,' Hermione bid him politely. 'Today was very...' She stalled, unable to find the right word.

'Illuminating,' Snape finished wryly. 'My thanks as well, Mr. Ollivander. Your assistance has proven invaluable.'

'Will you be back?' Hermione asked.

A short bark of laughter. 'There are too many people selling secrets for me to believe that my trip here will remain a private matter for long. No, missy. As much as I would love to stay and help, I happen to value my hide. Albus will, of course, know how to contact me – I would like to see someone try to stop that man from getting the information he desires – but I will not be remaining.'

'Oh.'

'There is little more that I can do to help you as it is. The Hall has recognized you. The two of you and the headmaster are free to enter it any time you wish. No one else can gain entry – even if you wanted them to. The magic will not permit them to pass the first barriers.'

Silver eyes held each of theirs in a long turn, his goodbyes identical to his greeting. 'Be careful, both of you. Your understanding of this gift must be profound to accomplish your duties, and unfortunately, you're forging the path through it alone.'

So saying, he ducked a bit, planted both feet firmly in the fire, and let it carry him back upstairs.

'He's given us a massive puzzle and a-half-dozen clues. I don't know whether I dread trying again or can't wait to give it another go,' Hermione murmured tiredly. She leaned one hand out to rest against the mantle, too fatigued to take the few steps to her chair.

As her eyes drifted closed, she felt her bondmate come up behind her. Lean arms encircled her protectively and she allowed her head to drop against his chest, turning so that her ear could lie against the steady _bump-bump_ of his beating heart.

Hermione's head grew heavier against his chest, and the finely-boned hand he had splayed across the slight bulge at her abdomen was slowing down with the rhythm of her breathing as she attempted to go to sleep standing up. His own eyelids seemed to be growing heavier with every passing second, as if sleep were a drug passed to him by touch.

Black eyes considered a little-used door in the office wall, the window of an oft-dreamt fantasy wafting open.

_The Dark Lord_...came the treacherous whisper from his logical mind.

'_Time is fleeting, Severus...don't let it run out with things unsaid and undone.'_ Minerva's words rose to challenge the cold calculation.

A thread of drowsy pleasure brushed his fingers, a contentment so pure it radiated confidence. There were no words to the expression, but it bathed him in encouragement, urging him to set aside the systems of rewards and punishments that had governed his life. Snape glanced down at his hand, and then stared in amazement. The elements that had made themselves so frustratingly absent in Founders' Hall were pulsing over, around and through his fingers. And given that it was localized right over her womb, there was no doubting the source.

Instinctively, he pressed his hand tighter against Hermione's belly, seeking some physical sign of the life that produced magic in such abundance. But there were no kicks, and the thumping beat under his palm was his bondmate's, not his child's.

Abruptly certain, he lifted the young woman in his arms. Her mouth moved with the faint exhale of something that might have been a question if it was coherent, but she almost immediately relaxed into his embrace, burrowing her face in the space between his open teaching robes and white linen shirt.

With a wordless command, the unassuming door, squashed and forgotten between two bookcases, swung open and Snape silently carried Hermione into the quarters belonging to the Head of Slytherin.

~888~

Bright light sizzled and then flared, lighting the resolutely determined pale face eagerly watching magic at work. Splinters were knitting, the ornate gold relief re-painting itself-

-halfway up the door, the white-hot spell reached the first of the broken bronze hinges, hissed angrily at the steadfastly incompliant metal, and fizzled.

As a younger child, Draco Malfoy would have screamed in rage and thrown the object across the room. A year ago, he would have sneered, shrugged and given up, secure in his name to purchase what his efforts did not yield.

He was no longer a child, and his name now meant nothing. His parents' lives were the price of his success. The tears he had been able to suppress until this autumn began their warm descent down his cheeks, multiplying themselves in his shame.

Unbidden, his Aunt Bellatrix's cold voice shrieked in his thoughts. _'That worthless Mudblood our Lord was on about could do this better than you! You have been offered the greatest chance, the worthiest of opportunities, and in your weakness you continue to fail your generous master!'_

_Granger_...

The tears stopped as a half-mad plan began to rotate, picking up details as it spun faster and faster. Granger _could _do this kind of magic. If she needed to, she would be able to repair the cabinet. Whatever the spell, she would find it – or invent it. Research and creation. The two things he had no true talent for.

He hastily dragged his knuckles across his thin cheeks, regaining the posture that had served him well for many years. He was not so withdrawn that he hadn't heard the whispers floating around after Pansy's ill-advised attack. Getting Granger at the right time would not be easy.

But it was a better idea than continuing to fail while his mother's time was running out.

A/N: The scene between Harry, Ron and Ginny is directly taken from canon, with the notable exception that in the original, Ginny's lines all belong to Hermione. Happy reading!


	11. One is Two

Disclaimer: Not mine. Respects paid.

One is Two

_June, 1998_

'Sir!' The ringing voices that greeted the sound of his striking boot heels brought Snape to a halt, surveying the three younger Assassins who had stood instantly upon his arrival, feet apart and hands behind their backs in the time-honoured stance of soldiers responding to a superior.

'Redson. Rolfe. Pickert.' He nodded to each of them in turn and gestured for them to sit. They did so immediately, and he noted with the detached pride of a teacher who has done his job well that their movements were utterly silent.

He steepled his fingers in a conscious imitation of Dumbledore as he considered the young woman and two barely-older men seated in front of him. They were all of this second generation, in their early twenties and recruited after the Dark Lord's resurrection.

He had taken careful steps with the newest members of the elite brotherhood of killers under his command. They numbered a mere nine in total, and the six older members recalled the glory days of their master's first reign, making them all-but-impossible turn.

These younger ones, however...

They had never tasted true victory. The last year had been marked with some tremendous achievements for the self-proclaimed Lord of Britain, but major setbacks as well, and – due to his absence of employment – Snape had been on hand to discreetly fan the discontented whispers circulating on the tongues of the new blood in their ranks. He knew some of the murmurs had rolled from Redson's sharp wit.

It was time to see if his tenure as their teacher had ensured their loyalty to him or his supposed master.

'The battle draws nearer,' he announced suddenly. 'At Solstice, we strike Hogwarts.' Nervousness rippled through them, stringing the air between them thickly. Their saturnine leader suppressed his smile. All of them had attended the famous institution; the eldest amongst them had graduated only eight years ago. There was something...taboo...about attacking a school, albeit an almost entirely empty one, a feeling of wrongness that accompanied such an idea. And Hogwarts, with or without Dumbledore, was a formidable target – protected by more magic and illusions than anyone knew.

Magic that would prove fatal for his remaining master, if Hermione's carefully conducted research and their efforts of the past year were correct.

He took a moment to consider the faces turned up to his and continued in a slow drawl. 'Your comrades all lived and suffered through the first rise and fall, and thus know their duty. I wonder, my youngest Assassins, whether you have considered all that we are truly fighting for?'

It was not a rhetorical question, and Rolfe answered first, though cautiously. Their training at the former professor's hands had introduced all of them to a rougher side of his tongue than they had received in his Potions classroom years prior. Among his students, Snape despised fools. Amongst his Assassins, it was tantamount to a death warrant. 'Power.'

'Indeed? A vague word, for all that it is bandied about with an air of mystique. Power...How would you define "power", Pickert?'

'Control. Knowing that others will obey your wishes because it is _you _who wish it.'

'Good, a more solid answer. Do you agree, Redson?'

The lithe, blonde ex-Ravenclaw had been one of his most intelligent students before Hermione's star had risen and obliterated the competition. For all that she had been outshone by a Gryffindor three years her junior, Julia Redson's competence and quick mind could not be doubted.

And she, he knew, was beginning to observe the total destruction around her and to have second thoughts.

'Power is personal,' she countered Pickert's reply slowly. 'To have true power is to have control over self – both over one's actions and reactions, which you have taught us, sir, but also over one's destiny and choices.'

'Indeed.' Snape settled into a chair facing his disciples, watching the boys exchange puzzled looks. 'I have, therefore, a critical question: When we win, who will have such power?'

~888~

'-such division will prove disastrous. I admit it was…unexpected.' Harry stopped, his feet braking so fast they seemed to take root in the wood without his permission, sensing the importance of the conversation going on behind the mostly-closed kitchen door just inches from his ear.

'I couldn't agree more. When Hermione wrote to me in January, requesting assistance, I was…gratified….to think that my work might directly help the Order. It never occurred to me to refuse.' Charlie's roughened baritone, so warm and full of laughter in Harry's memories, was now thoughtful and troubled – the sound of a man who bore responsibility and was unpleasantly unsure of a decision he had made. The younger wizard felt his gut twist as he leaned into the aging door slowly, breathing lightly, knowing that every word would likely wound him, but desperate to know regardless.

'Hermione Granger did not write of the internal strife that the Order is currently experiencing, nor did your brother inform me of such.' There was a note of question in the gravelly voice – and Harry recognized the hoarse tones of Griphook, who had arrived with two aides forty-eight hours ago to add his voice to their planning.

'Bill hasn't been here in Grimmauld Place for months,' Charlie said slowly. 'As for Hermione…Harry has proven himself an intelligent and innovative leader in almost every other field of endeavour, but in regards to her…' The doubt that filled the silence pressed on Harry's chest like a boulder, his breath eking from him in hard-fought gasps and leaving him unable to draw air. 'Her every movement, each decision she has made, all the bridges she has crossed – and those she has burned – have been for him. For the Order. She has surrendered everything she loves in her life for the war because she believes it to be _right_, and because she made a personal choice that repulses him, he and Moody have blocked her out, refused her advice.' The sound of silverware clinking in fiddling fingers filled the next lapse of voices. 'Ron used to say he envied them their friendship – he told Mum that it was one of the only things in the world he thought truly unbreakable. Clearly, all it took was the right pressure point.'

'Her admiration for young Potter and dedication to our crusade was very apparent in the letter she sent to me only three months ago. Imagine our surprise at discovering his coldness towards her.' A beat, 'The right pressure point. It's true, then, that she's in love with the spy?' The curiosity carried no hint of accusation, and a wave of guilt, riding the tide that had already drowned him, scalded the eavesdropper with Charlie's matter-of-fact reply:

'It is.' A long sigh. 'I wouldn't want to be them for all the Galleons in Gringotts – they've been shoved between a rock and a hard place, with some of the Order nearly as unforgiving as I imagine the Death Eaters must be. I took Potions with Severus Snape for seven years and he was a right bastard in the classroom – but I took an 'E' on my Potions NEWT and I'd stake my life on his devotion to us and to Hermione. There's more to him than some of our number are able and willing to see.'

'Those who fulfil the most crucial functions in an impossible situation are often crucified for their efforts,' came the Goblin's quiet observation. 'You humans are a peculiar species in this regard.'

Harry knew that if he listened to any more, he would be brought to his knees, paralyzed with grief. He backed away from the door, his face twisted with private pain, almost stumbling up the stairs, shame pouring through him with such ferocity it seemed to have replaced his blood. These men, essentially strangers to the situation, had named a flurry of emotions and contradictions that he had been wrestling with for six months.

Uncertainty was an expensive feeling that Harry could no longer afford. The year since Albus Dumbledore's plunge from the top of the Astronomy Tower had possessed a peculiar clarity – his choices made in rolling chains that he had not doubted when they had come before him, flying through the days of questing for the four remaining Horcruxes and keeping the Order intact without looking back.

Hermione was the broken link in this chain. She always had been. In a year of learning new magic, battle strategies and leadership over more than an informal group of students, his former best friend had become the stumbling block that had nearly destroyed them and might yet. The nagging at the back of his mind grew louder, re-enforced by Charlie's gentle confusion and Griphook's quiet judgment until it seemed to be pounding in him.

'_Ron used to say he envied them their friendship…he thought truly unbreakable.'_

'…_crucified…You humans are a peculiar species in this regard.'_

Was it time to un-make the decision he had defended so staunchly? He had been positive all those months ago, through layers of the penetrating agony that accompanies betrayal, that it had been the right choice, that he had made it in a desperate bid to protect the Order and the rest of those he loved. But the seasons since had proven his primary fears groundless and woven a second nightmare that grew ever more tangled. He could not afford to lose the confidence of these two factions – nor could he forget that it was Hermione and McGonagall who had taken the first steps towards bringing them into the Order to begin with.

As he reached the second floor, he automatically turned to the right, moving towards Moody's room, and stopped himself. The old Auror was an undeniably valuable ally – there was still no one in the Ministry to equal his instincts or reflexes when duelling – but his world was governed by the cold realities of a life lived during and between wartimes. The raven-haired boy who had once considered it the highest honour to be included in Alastor Moody's list of protégés knew what his self-appointed mentor would tell him – and his heart contracted with a different pain as he realized that this was not the advice he needed to hear.

For an instant on the darkened landing, his fists clenched in an unreleased confession of lonely desperation. He needed his father.

A fierce desire for a parent, a shoulder to lean against and cling to, seared through him, knotting his stomach. Before going to Hogwarts, and since Sirius' death, he had savagely suppressed this need, shoving it away from himself as a symptom of a disease that he could not indulge. But now he felt that he was at the end of a long road, unable to fight the demons howling in pursuit. Tonight, he felt just the seventeen years that he had lived, and wanted a father who could tell him whether he should stay his course or offer his apologies. Harry felt he almost didn't care which, as long as someone else could tell him the path he should be taking.

He swung left, his footsteps leading him to the violently magenta door that Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin had painted in defiance of every one of her ancestors, knowing that the last living Marauder would be behind it.

~888~

_March, 1997_

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

The clock on the mantle ticked away the first five seconds after midnight, followed by the next five, and the next. The fire had sputtered down in the grate until it was no more than embers, their glow passing from coal to coal in an imitation of Muggle Christmas lights.

A brief flare brought a glint to the curls of auburn splayed across his pillow and a violent feeling of possessiveness rode through him. Settling himself gently beside her, he pulled her tighter against him, needing to feel the warmth of her limbs tangled with his, the firmness of her back meeting his chest.

_Too short_, part of him seemed to cry as his free hand wrapped itself in her hair again. _There is no time_. No time to learn, to treasure, to keep. He had never before experienced the constant pressure associated with the fear of personal loss. It was part of what made him impervious to the schemes of other Death Eaters, his life an unbroken sheet of service, without any of the vulnerabilities that plagued the rest of his fellows.

Fate had given him two people to lose at the worst possible moment. And he had found himself unable to divorce from them, no matter that all three lives swung precariously in an uncharted territory. Now – in the evenings, sitting at his desk, in the staff room, he would become unnaturally aware of the swinging pendulums, every soft _tick_ of the brass. The clock was counting down, each hour more precious as they grew rarer by the day. Each memory carefully catalogued, a guard against a future where there would be no new memories being created.

He had never had the luxury of holding her while she slept, of studying every minute detail of her face while still. He could see now the faintest rash of freckles that would break out in the summer sun trickling across her nose and one finger came up to stroke her long eyelashes, letting them tickle his finger. He let his hand drift across her temple, finding the hollow there, before reaching the curve of her ear, sweeping hair aside as he traced the soft edge.

A trickle of muddy yellow sullied her slumbering blue state, their bond warning him that she was waking under his attentions and he reflexively withdrew his hand, wishing more than anything not to wake her.

_Tick. Tock._

12:15. The later it got, the higher the risk. He knew that her friends were more observant than most of her peers, and the very last thing they all needed at this juncture was an irate Potter ready to blast him to oblivion.

Reluctantly, he resumed his attentions to her face, allowing his fingers to drift down her neck, teasing the wisps of curl there as he added his mouth, kissing a line down her jaw to find her lips.

'Mmmmmm,' she sighed into him as she stirred to consciousness. 'This is a nice way to wake up,' she told him sleepily, giving him an unguarded smile

The words he had prepared to send her on her way vanished as she arched her back next to him, her hands reaching towards the headboard as she stretched. Tucking one hand about her waist firmly, he pulled her flush against him, finding her mouth with his own.

'A _very_ nice way.' Her smile grew wicked as she ran her hands over the soft white shirt his students seldom saw, nimble fingers undoing the first two buttons. It was just enough for her small hand to slide under the fabric and run along his bare skin, raising goose bumps along with adrenaline. He lay her back down on the mattress, throwing a long leg over her, tangling them together as he brushed her lips again, the gentleness making it a question.

She responded with passion, parting her lips to invite his tongue, the hand under his shirt sliding up and over his shoulder, pulling him to her as if she could meld them with her fingers alone. So hot. Her palms seemed to be made from fire, sinking through his flesh to heat his blood. Dimly, he could hear her soft whimpers as she fought with his clothes, and he rocked his hips against her, instinctively answering her desire.

'Hermione,' he breathed, lifting his head just far enough to stare into the dark cinnamon eyes, forcing himself to stop. 'Hermione...do you want this? Now?' He could feel his worries spinning into her mind, his fears taking shape in flashes of imagined disaster – from Voldemort, from Harry Potter, from Draco Malfoy and most of all, from himself. Fear that she would break herself on a heart wrapped in a dense casing of pain and mistrust.

A bright white stream of assurance rushed over the gruesome scenes, dimming them like an eraser taken to a pencil drawing. Her gaze was gentle, but her voice was fierce as she replied. 'More than anything else in the world, Severus. I want you. Without the compulsion of our magic.' She brought her free hand to rest against his cheek, fingertips stroking down his jaw. 'I love you. You're difficult to the point of impossibility. You're harsh, demanding, an unyielding perfectionist, and I'm not sure a single person on the planet knows the _real _Severus Snape.'

She ran her hand over her belly, he felt the backwash of magic, and heard a soft _bump-bump. Bump-bump. Bump-bump._ 'Our child. Yours,' her hot finger pressed against his chest, 'and mine. Its beating heart is proof that other things than agony exist in the world.'

The hand slid up and around his neck, bringing his mouth close enough for her to whisper into as she kissed him.

'I want you. I am Bound to you. I will walk at your side for the rest of my life. And I would never, ever change that.'

~888~

'Hermione? Hermione!'

The Gryffindor jerked and sat up in bed, squinting at her friend. 'Uhh?'

'Good morning, sleepy-head,' Ginny laughed, crossing to the four-poster. 'Ron's already gone with the others for his Apparition test. It's almost eleven. I was sure I'd find you reading up here, since you've skipped breakfast. And first period. Did you have a class?' Hermione didn't bother to restrain her groan. Even at the beginning of the term, skipping classes had hardly been her usual standard. She would have to apologize profusely to Professor Vector at lunch. Ginny was peering into the older girl's eyes. 'Are you feeling well?'

'Me? Oh...yeah,' Hermione stifled a yawn as she scrubbed at her face. 'I'm fi-' she stopped, clapping her lips tightly together as her stomach performed its current morning ritual and nausea swept over her.

'Hold on,' she gasped, bolting from her bed. 'Bathroom.' She dove inside, throwing the door shut behind her as she bent over the sink, her stomach heaving little more than water and the very early morning tea she'd shared with Snape.

Snape. Her fingers grazed down her throat as her reflection told her she was wearing a goofy smile. One she would have to wipe off before she went back out to see Ginny. Her present role most emphatically did _not _include giddy excitement.

The thought itself removed the smile, leaving her face with the serious, pale countenance she'd had for months. She absently rinsed the remainder of her toothpaste from her mouth, remembered to flush the toilet as a decoy, and re-entered her room.

Ginny was standing just outside the bathroom door, one hand still extended as if debating whether to break in. 'You're sure you're fine?' she asked anxiously.

'Of course,' Hermione answered, reaching for her hairbrush and pulling it through the first snarls with a grimace.

'It sounded like...like you were retching in there.'

'Did it?' she contrived to sound surprised, grateful that her stubborn hair provided such an excellent focus. Lying to the youngest Weasley had about a fifty percent chance of success – especially if the other girl was looking her dead in the eye. 'Maybe Crookshanks has a hairball.'

'Crookshanks?'

'What else would it be?'

Ginny cocked her head at her friend, frowning. Something about Hermione's blasé answer seemed off-kilter, but she neither looked nor sounded ill, and the red-head's peculiar encounter with Blaise Zabini the previous day was taking up most of her brain space. She had turned the incident over many times, trying to examine it from as many possible angles as she could without consulting either her brother or Harry. There was no guarantee that with Parkinson's latest attack, they wouldn't fly off the handle and land themselves in serious trouble with one or more professors. She knew that Snape would be only too delighted to punish the both of them, no doubt to the detriment of Gryffindor's Quidditch team.

'Something happened yesterday.'

Hermione knew from her tone that Ginny wasn't talking about Quidditch practice or an unusual lesson. Her brush paused mid-yank, and she pulled it from her hair, ignoring the strands that came away with it.

'What? Are you all right?'

'Yes...I think so,' she said hesitantly. She paused, looking for the right words to convey both her confusion and her certainty. Ginny could not fathom the motive that had caused Zabini to stand up to some of the most influential Slytherins in his year. But to further her bafflement, she also had absolutely no doubt as to his sincerity.

'You _think _so? Gin, if you've been holding on to something since yesterday and you're not sure about it...' she trailed off, then, 'And Ron and Harry...was it Harry? It was, wasn't-'

'No, it's not him. But I can't tell them,' Ginny cut her off with a flip of her head. 'Ron is my big brother. He feels like he has to protect me all the time, no matter how much I learn or how often I prove myself. And Harry...Harry's under a lot of stress. This Horcrux thing, whatever it is, and his extra lessons with the headmaster...'

_Not to mention his unquenchable curiosity about Draco Malfoy_, Hermione thought. The pinched pain of guilt washed through her. How long had it been since she'd taken the time to properly talk to Ginny? Days? Weeks? Since Ron's poisoning? Ollivander's visit yesterday had only taken up three hours, but it seemed to have put a lifetime of distance between the months and years before and this morning. She felt as if she'd been wrapped in a cocoon and then wakened after weeks of hibernation to find herself missing critical details.

'Then what is it?' she asked gently, crossing to her bed and patting the duvet, settling back as Ginny sat down next to her.

'Parkinson attacked me yesterday.' Hermione sucked in her breath, worrying cutting a furrow in her forehead. Her Elemental Magic had leapt to her defence against the vengeance-driven Slytherin. But Ginny had no such in-built protection.

'I was on my way back to the Potions classroom to get my scales when she stepped out into a corridor with Daphne Greengrass, Anthony Goldstein and Theodore Nott.'

'_Four_ of them?'

'Yep. Four of them. I wouldn't worry about facing any of them one-on-one, and maybe even two-on-one, but four were odds that I couldn't beat.'

'Obviously you did. You're sitting here instead of occupying a bed in the hospital wing. And why didn't you report it?'

'And make things worse? Parkinson could have _killed _you on the stairs last month. Snape was furious with both of you. And it doesn't seem to have changed a damn thing.' She shook her head and continued. 'I wasn't hurt. Why bother involving teachers? The most important thing is that I didn't deal with it on my own. I have no idea what Blaise Zabini was doing in an empty classroom before tea-time yesterday, but he heard them and charged out.' Lighter brown eyes held their darker counterparts. 'To defend me.'

The chocolate eyes went almost comically round. 'Blaise Zabini? _Helped_ you?'

'My reaction exactly. And I still have no idea why.'

Hermione suddenly smiled, surprising the younger girl. 'I think I might.'

~888~

'What does it feel like?'

A smile, bright, assured and wholly unlike any expression they'd seen on Harry's face for months, split his mouth. 'Excellent,' he replied confidently. 'Really excellent. Right...I'm going down to Hagrid's.'

'What?' Ron and Hermione swapped looks of pure alarm, the latter's eyes dropping to the golden liquid that had now been re-sealed in its vial. Did they have the wrong potion?

'No, Harry,' she gripped his shoulders, bringing his eyes to meet hers. 'You've got to go and see Slughorn, remember?'

'No. I'm going to Hagrid's. I've got a good feeling about going to Hagrid's.'

'You've got a good feeling about burying a giant spider?' Ron said slowly, as if speaking to someone who had suffered a severe concussion.

'Yeah.' The shimmering sheen of his Invisibility Cloak emerged from his trunk. 'I feel like it's the place to be tonight, you know what I mean?'

'No,' his best friends replied in blunt unison.

'This _is_ Felix Felicis, I suppose?' Hermione asked, snatching the bottle from Harry and holding it up to the light. She hadn't forgotten the love-potion-poisoned Chocolate Cauldrons. For a Chosen One, the holes in Harry's security could swallow battleships. 'You haven't got another little bottle full of – I don't know-'

'Essence of Insanity?' Ron suggested.

Harry laughed easily, and both of his friends studied him with increasing alarm as he swung the Cloak over his shoulders with a practiced gesture.

'Trust me. I know what I'm doing. Or at least...Felix does.' So saying, he pulled the garment over his head and vanished entirely. The dormitory door opened a moment later and they heard quiet steps begin their descent.

'I reckon we'd better go after him,' Ron said. 'It'll look pretty strange if the Fat Lady opens by herself.'

'You're right,' Hermione said, blinking. 'But it just occurred to me – Felix makes you lucky. It doesn't necessarily follow an agenda. What if Harry is setting out to do something else entirely?'

Ron swallowed at the unwelcome thought. 'You mean like-'

'Draco Malfoy,' Hermione finished the question flatly, worrying darkening her eyes.

The Keeper was quiet for a moment, then shrugged. 'I don't see that we can do anything at all except ride it out. He's taken the potion – and he's better than us at defence anyway. If we tried to stop him, we'd lose the fight. He knows how serious this is. We have to trust that he's not going to put Malfoy above You-Know-Who.'

'I guess we do.' A shared look of uncertainty betrayed their fear that such trust would be unfounded. Hermione sighed. 'Come on. He's waiting for us.'

~888~

'It worked?'

'Perfectly,' Harry answered, green eyes grim.

'Then why-?'

'Because it's worse than I thought, Hermione. A lot worse.'

'How do you-?'

'Miss Granger.'

Snape's cold voice interrupted from behind her, and Hermione straightened visibly in her seat. Bondmate or no, certain tones still brought her eager, desperate-for-approval little girl to the fore. She saw Harry's eyes get wintry even as Ron shifted subtly, fingers sliding along her forearm and squeezing comfortingly.

'Yes, Professor?' she turned to him.

'Professor McGonagall apologizes for having pressing business during your Transfiguration tutorial today, and,' his sneer grew more pronounced, 'has saddled me with your presence during the next hour and a half. Your period with her starts in ten minutes. Do not be late.'

He billowed toward the Great Hall doors and Hermione let out a long breath. 'You'll have to fill me in on getting the memory out of Professor Slughorn later, Harry. Looks like I've got a long morning ahead of me.'

'Don't let him get to you,' Ron murmured, worried blue eyes studying her face for any indication of distress.

Hermione met his gaze, completely unruffled. 'Professor Snape has long lost his ability to cause me anguish.' _A lie, though the pain he can cause me is for reasons you would never want to know or even dream are possible._

'You seem almost...at peace with him in some way,' Harry remarked, spiteful jade following their professor until the door had closed, eclipsing him from view. The glance he turned on her was thoughtful. 'After how he treated you last term, I'd've thought you'd hate him.'

'Why?' she asked, deliberately rising with her last piece of toast in hand. Whatever her bondmate had in mind, it wasn't going to be helped by her friends sitting and analysing them. 'I have private lessons with him now, and he's never anything but professional.'

'Just...be careful around him,' Harry bid her, leaning across the table to capture her hand before she left. 'Remember what I heard between him and Malfoy.' The eyes behind the lenses adopted a haunted look and he squeezed her hand. 'I don't want anything to happen to you.'

Unexpected tears welled in her eyes and she blinked hastily to banish them even as her mind whispered, _Too late._ 'Nothing's going to happen,' she assured him in a quiet voice, then tossed a look at the massive clock hanging over the doors of the hall and smiled, deliberately breaking his grip and the melancholy. 'Unless, of course, I'm late. In which case, I can't guarantee that he won't be putting Gryffindor in the minus column for House points.'

~888~

'Hurry,' Snape bade her curtly, locking his office door behind them. 'Professor Slughorn has done us a great favour. His...dislike...of rising early means that there are no Potions classes first period.' He didn't trouble to hide the scorn in his voice. Hermione didn't waste breath or thought defending the portly man. He had chosen not to give in to Voldemort, so she could credit him at least that far, but his "collection" of clever and well-connected students turned her stomach. Fashioning an elite of any kind was a dangerous game – their current political situation made that obvious.

As they left Snape's office, her shorter steps rapidly putting her a few paces behind him, the witch suppressed a sudden, strange urge to giggle. The swift, secretive walk into the caverns leading to Founders' Hall reminded her of Saturday mornings during her first few summers in between Hogwarts years. With her magical training, her mother had also decided it was time for her only daughter to learn other arts – mainly cooking and cleaning. So in the early mornings, Hermione had taken to almost silently emerging from her room, sliding over the carpeted stairs to the main floor, and curling up in her father's study with a book. She would stay there, enduring a growling stomach, until one of her parents discovered her and turned her out to help with breakfast.

Eventually, Hermione realized that she actually cared very little about the extra work, but the peacefulness of the routine stuck with her and had carried over to Hogwarts as well.

Mason-carved stone gave way into the nature-made tunnels leading to the entrance, and then they were through what looked like a solid rock wall, wands flaring in the gloom as the steep stairs fell away beneath them. The doors carved with the intricate symbols of their gift rose before them, swung open to their lightest touch, and admitted them into the vast beginnings of the school overhead.

'It's impossible to tell how often Minerva will be this understanding about our need to master Elemental Magic,' Snape said shortly as he strode towards the great round tables, already stripping off his over robe. 'She has a great deal of faith in your ability to sail through your Transfiguration exams, but, like Filius, she is also seeking to push you further than NEWTs require.'

'If necessary, we could use some of my Defence lessons,' Hermione said speculatively, settling her bag next to his clothes on the Slytherin-draped cloth. He turned to her, both eyebrows raised in a deceptively neutral expression.

'So kind of you to offer,' he replied softly. 'Without so much as thinking about consulting your teacher. Especially since you've long since exceeded the need to practice the complex magic behind defence like Mirror Spells.'

'Severus, that's not what I meant.'

'Defence is, without a doubt, your single most critical subject at this time. A little more respect would be prudent.'

'We have magic that dwarfs anything seen in the last thousand years,' she challenged.

'Unpredictable, unmanageable and unknown power. To date, not particularly useful. I would not reach for my elements in a fight. I would reach for my wand. As long as this remains true, I expect you to practice traditional defensive technique.'

'I didn't say we should replace _all _my lessons-' Her frustration with her prickly bondmate cracked her voice and she stopped. 'Sorry. Let's just...try this again.'

A short nod, and they seated themselves, kneecaps touching to allow the four elements to course through both bodies evenly as Ollivander had suggested. Hermione struggled to put away her aggravation, knowing that it would only unbalance her and make her unable to find the white-hot source of her magic within.

Even without his presence, she could hear the words of the aged wandmaker rolling in her mind, the low, steady cadence of his voice helping her focus her breathing, sliding inwards.

_Find your centre. Search for the focal point of who you are. What do you see there? What parts of yourself are naked to you and what yet remains veiled? What do you feel? Let the gift of your magic caress you, let it guide you..._

~888~

Flame danced over laughing Earth, her gilded greens and golds catching the edge of fire and turning it into a thing of live beauty. Hermione smiled, watching it wrap over and around itself, redoubling to include her. It was hers to command, all of it, from the first spitting sparks to their dying embers. How had such control remained a mystery when it permeated her being? Flamma fired in her synapses, Earth rippled in her muscles. She had but to extend her mind.

Sunlight warmed her skin, and she instinctively turned her face towards it, opening her eyes.

Her gasp brought Snape's eyes snapping open to see a miniature ball of sunlight rising between them, just over their heads. Heat inundated them, the warmth of a star added to the already hot underground.

Ice frosted the ground around her, steaming as it met the fierce warmth of the tiny sun.

_How is it that two days ago we produced practically no sign of power, and now it's-_

_Easy?_ he completed the thought wryly as lacy patterns skated across the floor in growing circle. _Like drawing one's breath._ Hermione breathed deeply with his thought and felt the touch of Ether, the kiss of rain, the whisper of fire and the dampness of earth.

'I think I know,' he admitted as the orb ascended, shedding light over an ever-expanding area. 'Why the elements are responding now and not before.'

'And?' Hermione prompted him when he hesitated.

'We have returned to them the energy that we already used. Our first trial, after consummating our relationship, was Neville Longbottom. We released the magic and averted a disaster – but then we had to build up more.'

'Sex,' Hermione said quietly.

'Precisely. We did, and then you defended yourself from Miss Parkinson. I discharged mine by controlling yours. But then we didn't...re-charge the power, so to speak.'

'Because the first time we've had sex since Christmas...'

'...was yesterday morning.' He watched her face, glowing with pleasure at the memory, excitement for their breakthrough and her petite star.

'Gryffindors.' The word had very little bite, his largely neutral tone betrayed by the softness of his eyes. 'One step of the journey and you act like you've reached the highest peak. Don't get ahead of yourself, Hermione. We don't know the first thing about real control.'

His perpetual dourness had no effect. 'We have an awfully good start.'

~888~

'Hermione Granger?'

Hermione lifted her head from the stack of books she had spread all over the library table, resisting the urge to sweep several of them into her bag and out of eye-view. Little was recorded about the Order of the Ang'guin Weyr and very little more about Raw Magic in any form, but due to Ollivander's remarks regarding Blood Magic, Dark Magic and Love Magic, she had pulled every book off the Hogwarts shelves containing a trace of information on these still-popular branches of the art. Dumbledore's thoroughness meant that there weren't many, but the determined girl would take what she got. Voldemort had probably melded one or more of these watered-down magics with modern technique in the creation of his Horcruxes and their guards. To undo them...

'I'm Christina Clearwater,' she continued awkwardly as Hermione's brain took it's time emerging from labyrinths of thought. 'I think you know my older sister?'

Hermione blinked, frantically flipping through her memory. _Clearwater, Clearwater..._Percy Weasley's bright-red face and ears burning in embarrassment flashed in her mind and she nodded suddenly. 'Penelope? I wouldn't say I know her. I've seen her,' the Gryffindor offered.

'I was wondering...she said – everyone says – you're really smart. Could you help me?'

Hermione drew a deep breath, reluctantly studying the work splayed haphazardly across the library's largest table. She couldn't leave any of it lying out for people to find. The best possible conclusion would get her suspended, the worst would hazard a guess at the truth. The existence of the Horcruxes was hardly common knowledge, and as March had rolled through April and half of May, she had been feverishly searching to discover whether Voldemort's desire to have a seven-part soul was feasible. Hopefully the how-to guide would also helpfully include thoughts on their destruction and the way to identify and destroy the four missing parts of the Dark Lord's soul. Harry had told her that Dumbledore suspected both Slytherin's lost locket and Hufflepuff's golden cup to be amongst the items, leaving them with two unidentified objects to locate.

'It won't take very long...I'm sorry for interrupting, but I don't know who else to ask.'

The researcher firmly bit back her sigh. She was a prefect...and she couldn't deny her help to anyone who asked for it.

'Of course,' she answered mildly. 'Let me clear up.' A quick glance at the clock told her that they had fifteen minutes to nine. 'It's nearly curfew,' she said, nodding towards the timepiece.

'It will only take a few minutes. I just need someone with enough magic to actually _do _what has to be done.'

Weighing the books in her hands, Hermione debated which ones to take with her. She could get away with checking out one or two of them, but she'd never pass Madam Pince carrying the whole stack. There were certain combinations of books not allowed out of the library, just as students were not allowed to grow specific combinations of plants in the greenhouses.

Selecting two, she waved her wand to send the others back to their places. 'I thought we weren't allowed to do that,' Christina said, awed as the volumes neatly slotted themselves back in place.

'We're not, but you're in a hurry and we haven't got a lot of time. Besides, Madam Pince didn't see, so no harm done.' She took the two volumes to the librarian, receiving a short nod and a clipped, 'Good night, Miss Granger,' before exiting the doors.

'Where are we going?'

'The seventh floor corridor.'

~888~

As her foot hit the top stair leading to the seventh floor, Hermione felt her breath coming in rough rasps, heartbeat fluttering in her neck. She winced as her back reminded her that at five months pregnant, she wasn't as small or as light as the glamours made her appear.

Christine glanced back at her anxiously. 'You okay?'

'Sure,' Hermione summoned a weak smile. 'Too many books, maybe. And not enough time exercising.'

'Well, we're almost there.' She set off at a brisk walk down the hall. When she turned and came back, the Gryffindor tried to quicken her pace. She didn't think she was moving that slowly-

But then Christine doubled back again, whispering something very hard, and comprehension dawned.

'The Room of Requirement,' Hermione murmured, even as a plain wooden door rippled into existence.

'Very good, Granger,' came a cold sneer, the door swinging open to reveal the pointed features of Draco Malfoy, wand extended.

'As promised,' Christine announced, eyes now blazing with a coldly brilliant certainty as her wand joined Malfoy's.

'Well done,' came a third voice. Through her initial volt of disbelieving, panicked fear, Hermione recognized Marietta Edgecomb, the word _sneak _still scrawled across her face.

The outnumbered witch subdued her instinct to run, forcing her brain to begin clicking through escape options. Drawing her wand to fight was impossible. She already had two wands against her and she hadn't even reached for her weapon. She also had no way of knowing what kind of damage a misfired spell would do to the foetus.

'Don't even think about it,' the Ravenclaw traitor purred comfortably, watching Hermione's dark eyes dart towards the stairs. 'Three wands against...none? You're not even going to draw?'

'I'm sorry the curse wasn't something nastier,' Hermione replied archly, her blithe tongue at odds with her adrenaline-sped heart. 'A bit more debilitating than a few spots that could be covered over.'

'A _few_ spots?' she snarled, and her wand-tip glowed with unreleased anger. 'Do you have any idea what it's like to wake up in the morning, _every_ morning, to this face?'

'I wouldn't be able to look myself in the eye either, if I'd sold out a group of friends.'

'As fun as it is to listen to this cat-fight, I have things to do,' Malfoy's voice sliced like iced silver through their animosity. 'I've waited a long time to get my hands on you, Granger. There's a job for you to complete.'

'Do the words 'over my dead body' mean anything to you?' she answered coldly. 'What twisted your sick mind into thinking that I would ever help you with _anything_?'

'Very simple.' His wand flickered, and she felt, with a new sensitivity born of Elemental Magic, a Silencing Charm slide over her skin and anchor itself at either end of the hall. Then he turned the wood on Christine.

'_Crucio.'_ She dropped to the floor, elbows, knees and forehead scraping the stone as she screamed, writhing, fingers clutching at the granite until they ran with blood.

'Stop!' cried Marietta. Malfoy ignored her, eyes studying not the victim thrashing under the curse but the one watching with horror.

He lifted his wand to allow Christine's screams to be replaced by sobs. 'So, Granger. The words 'over my dead body' produce a viable alternative. It's a shame Weasley didn't snuff it, but you're an eligible choice. Do the job – or Potter finds your remains in front of the Fat Lady tomorrow morning.'

~888~

The hospital door slammed open, hitting the wall like a shot from a cannon. Madam Pomfrey jerked upright from her examination, but her scolding stilled as she met the eyes of her two invaders. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley wore identical expressions of white-faced fear.

'Madam Pomfrey – Hermione-' Harry couldn't seem to make the rest of the words come.

'In bed number three. Sleeping, Potter. Don't disturb her.'

As the raven-haired boy darted to the bed in question, Ron looked to the nurse. 'Will she-'

'She has been extraordinarily lucky,' the matron told him soberly. _Luckier than we could have hoped._ 'She will suffer no permanent injury.'

'Did _he_ do this?' There was no mistaking the loathing in the red-head's voice as icy blue eyes studied the gashed visage of Draco Malfoy under her fingers.

'As yet, Mr. Weasley, we have absolutely no idea what actually happened. It could have been an accident,' she lied deftly. The marks of vicious magic layered both of her patients – Granger and Malfoy had clearly given as good as they'd gotten. How the young woman's child had survived the confrontation, the medi-witch truly didn't know.

'Forgive me for saying I can't believe that,' Ron said flatly, glancing down at the blond with undisguised hatred.

'What you believe is irrelevant, Mr. Weasley,' she said, not unkindly. 'The headmaster will be sorting this out when they both awaken.'

Ron knew a dismissal when he heard one, so he nodded stiffly and moved to join Harry at Hermione's bedside. There was a livid purple bruise spreading on her pale face from her left temple to her jaw line, already shrinking under the effects of a healing salve. Suddenly, vividly, Ron felt as if he were thirteen years old again, staring at his Petrified best friend. He reached out to grasp her hand, almost surprised when he felt warm, loose fingers instead of the chilled stiffness wrought by the Basilisk.

'I think she's trying to beat your record for most time spent in the hospital,' the Keeper said, trying to lighten the dark mood rolling from his friend in palpable waves.

'What did Madam Pomfrey say happened?' Harry asked in a low voice, ignoring the joke and reaching out to tuck an errant curl behind Hermione's ear.

'She didn't. Said it could have been an accident.'

'And Voldemort _could_ decide to become a hermit in India,' the other boy spat incredulously. 'An accident? When it's _Malfoy_?'

Ron's free hand gripped Harry's shoulder. 'I know you're angry,' he said in a low voice, 'but keep it down. She also said that Dumbledore'll sort this out when they wake up.'

'Right,' Harry snorted. 'Dumbledore. Because he's been so willing to talk about Malfoy before. He's never believed me when I've talked to him about it.'

'This is hard evidence he can't ignore, mate. You know Dumbledore. He just hates to think the worst of people. But now he'll do something about it, because he'll have to.'

Harry shrugged moodily, and the boys stood in silence, considering the sleeping witch so important to both of them.

The infirmary door blew open again, and once more the matron lifted her head in irritation and said nothing. Severus Snape's strides ate the length of the ward, and though he tossed a glower at the Gryffindor boys standing their vigil, he held his silence until he reached the bed containing Malfoy.

'Will he recover?' he asked brusquely, jerking his chin towards his student. She had never seen the onyx gaze look so much like stone, hard and flat.

'He will,' she confirmed. The black eyes never left his Slytherin's battered form. 'If you could brew more of the Clotting Draught, both Miss Granger and Mr. Malfoy need it,' she prompted.

The bright hardness of diamonds glittered in his face as he looked at the nurse, seeking confirmation of the questions he would not ask. 'They will be fine,' she answered.

'And the other girl?'

The matron took a deep breath. She had too many years of experience in a wartime environment to deny the effects of Cruciatus manifested on Christine Clearwater. 'I have no idea what occurred, Severus, and she, too, will make a full recovery, but we have a much greater problem on our hands than healing.'

Forcibly cutting off a sigh, Snape murmured, 'I know. The draught will be ready in two hours. I will bring it up to you.' He paused by Hermione's bed, looking at the two boys.

'Ten points each for being out after curfew. I suggest you return to your common room where you belong. Now.'

Mutiny setting his thin lips, Harry opened his mouth to retort, only to be cut off by the nurse. 'Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley. Professor Snape is correct. You, especially,' she added sternly, eyes fixed on Harry, 'should not be out after curfew. Please let him accompany you back to Gryffindor Tower.'

Glaring at their stone-faced Defence professor, the boys reluctantly allowed themselves to be led out of the infirmary and back to their dormitory.

~888~

It was midnight by the time Snape returned, draught decanted into two large bottles. The matron took them gratefully, pouring out a small measure to place by each bedside. He felt a faint tickle along his bond and turned automatically towards the bed where he knew Hermione lay, though he had intended to inquire about his Slytherin first.

'She's been asking for you,' the nurse told him blandly, dark grey eyes neutral.

'Indeed.' He did not take a single step in his bondmate's direction, studying Poppy Pomfrey's deliberately expressionless face as she went about checking her other two patients. He had long suspected that she knew the identity of the child's father, but the circumspect witch had never mentioned it to him – or to anyone else that he knew of.

With a deep breath that betrayed his trepidation, the Potions master approached the bed where Hermione lay. Potter and Weasley's presence had kept him from checking on her before, as it had kept him from flying into the infirmary and dismantling Lucius' son, Vow or no Vow.

The bleeding signals of distress, flushing their connection with violent orange, had alerted him to the fight three hours ago. Seated in his dungeon office, his heart had jumped with adrenaline, sending him to his feet and nearly out his door before he realized the bleak truth: he was too far away to help her, and his panicked arrival could possibly spell his death warrant. The desperate images coupled to fear and fury told him that her attacker was his erring student, and he had no doubt that Draco would take rich pleasure in denouncing his professor to the Dark Lord.

He had instead thrown the lock on his door as an extra precaution and seated himself next to the empty fireplace, struggling to find his centre even as flickers of her battle consumed him with worry. Silently reaching for the core he had come to recognize over weeks of mediation, he sent his half of their elemental gifts in search of their mistress, urging them to lend her their wild strength. They had had little luck so far in utilizing one another's elements, but he disregarded their failures as he poured the power into their bond, a stream of turquoise water laced with silver wind, praying that it would be enough to protect her from the dangerous younger Malfoy.

He winced as he gazed down at her still-purple left temple, though he knew that by morning both the pain and its disfigurement would have vanished. Abruptly, he felt a flash of gratitude to her Gryffindor friends. If he had seen her before the healing potions had come so far in their effects...

He had felt the fight end, felt his bondmate lose consciousness under immense pain. His vision had reddened, a rage he hadn't felt in decades shaking his limbs. The once-spoiled heir to the Malfoy name had nearly cost him everything. Nails biting into his desk until wooden splinters drove themselves into his fingertips, Snape had struggled to regain the control of which he was so proud. By the time the red had cleared, seven minutes had passed. Seven minutes in which he would have killed the boy, had Draco been present. He had not lost control like that since the raid seventeen years ago when he'd killed his father.

The bubble that had welled up to break his fury, a peaceful pink-ish blue from his child, had wordlessly assured him that mother and child were all right.

It was all that had kept his steps measured and calm as he made his way to the hospital wing, all that had kept him from hexing everyone who had crossed his path on the long route from underground.

Now she was breathing freely, the peace their baby has assured them of visible on her smooth features, and as his hand snaked out to brush her cheek, hers came up to trap it there, cinnamon eyes opening.

A shaky breath, a trembling smile. 'I was worried you wouldn't come.'

'I had potions to deliver,' he replied stiffly. His bondmate ignored the spoken excuse, feeling his relief at seeing her mend so quickly.

'I got lucky,' she admitted, her mouth twisting.

Hearing their low voices, the nurse bustled over, giving Hermione a professional smile touched with affection.

'How are you feeling?'

'Ach-ey,' the young woman admitted, shifting slightly and wincing, 'but I'll live.'

'Luckily for young Mr. Malfoy,' the medi-witch said with a rare touch of acidity. 'Miss Granger, the first thing I did when you were brought in by Filius and Minerva was check on your foetus. It gave every indication of being healthy, but I'd like to check again, make sure that none of the medication is having a negative effect.'

'Can it?' Snape asked quickly.

'Anything _can_,' Madam Pomfrey replied calmly. 'In all our thousands of years of giving birth, we have yet to understand a great deal about the creation of life. I do not, however, anticipate any complications. May I?' she asked Hermione.

'Please,' the Gryffindor answered earnestly, watching the medi-witch wave her wand.

'Good,' the elder witch muttered after a half-dozen almost-silent incantations. 'Everything appears to be normal. As a last check, I'd like to hear its heartbeat.'

Snape caught his breath, biting down on his possessive inclinations. Since the first time Hermione had shown him the spell, he'd asked her to perform it many times, almost unable to credit his ears with hearing the life of his child. Of course the school matron would use such a spell in performing her duties.

A last whisper, and a drumming filled the silence. But it was out of cadence. Dread shafted through their bond as they tossed fearful glances at each other, then turned their combined intensity on the frowning nurse.

'What is it?' Hermione asked, stomach churning.

'I don't know – I didn't expect-' Something like comprehension lit her face. 'Unless...' Another spell, and two clouds of smoke rose from Hermione's womb, twining together. The matron looked absolutely dumbfounded.

'What is it?' The same question in Snape's voice had a deadly bite.

'Your children are fine. It appears that the attack knocked their heartbeats out of sync.'

'Children?' The parents echoed her stunned pronouncement.

'Children,' she confirmed. 'Twins. A boy and a girl.'

A/N: The scene where Harry actually takes Felix is also lifted directly from "Half-Blood Prince". Thank you for reading!


	12. Backlash

Disclaimer: Not mine, all the characters and the world belong to our dear Ms. Rowling.

A/N: For those who have been encouraging me, reading and reviewing for the past eighteen months while this story has been on hiatus...thank you! I am still working on it and I promise that one day it will, indeed, get finished!

Backlash

_June, 1998_

'Solstice.' The one word was stated so grimly that Minerva did not have to ask the man seated across from her what it meant.

'Where?' she bit out tersely.

'Hogwarts.'

She flinched visibly, but Snape leaned towards his old colleague, a cold smile curving the corners of his mouth. 'You know that I encouraged him to choose the school as the site of our last confrontation. Most of our colleagues are now in the Order. You hold the keys to the wards and all the special privileges by virtue of your title as Headmistress – named in Dumbledore's will. The Dark Lord has selected it because he believes himself the possessor of all of its secrets, and because capturing Hogwarts will be the jewel in his symbolic crown. But he does not know all of the things we know about its defences, traps and corridors, and we can ensure that his arrogance costs him his life.' He hesitated. He had not revealed to her the last of the reasons that the former school was the prime choice of battlefield, indeed, the only one he where he was certain that their victory was assured.

'Still, Severus…a school…'

'Closed and emptied,' he countered without pity. 'There are no innocents to fear for. How many other places can claim the same?' He reached out his long fingers to close over her sleeve as he played his trump card. 'Minerva, Hogwarts was built over Britain's only Nexus – a site of Elemental Magic inhabited by the Order of the Ang'guin Weyr.'

This jerked her upright, sorrow for the institution they had both lost vanishing as she stared, breathless, into the plan he had so carefully woven and completed his thought. 'The magic that Hermione's been researching...the magic of your bond...

'The power that will allow us to undo the last four Horcruxes, according to the journals that the late headmaster left in her possession. And as the current Head of Hogwarts, you are the only other person besides myself and Hermione who can re-adjust the wards that keep out the world. You can allow Potter and his companions entry.'

'You want to dispose of the Horcruxes and fight a battle at the same time?' she asked incredulously.

'Yes,' he replied simply. 'The last Horcruxes are bound together so thoroughly that when they are destroyed, the Dark Lord will probably know at once. We cannot take that chance. Only if he is already completely engaged in a battle will he stand and fight. If we simply act now, he will withdraw – weakened, but very much alive, and re-build himself.' He shot her a glance as he rose to his feet, hands clasped behind his back, unable to keep still, the swift motion of events falling one after another into a line he had created translated into the movement of his body.

'This is the difference between ending the war by July and prolonging it for at least another decade.'

Her dark blue eyes caught his gaze and held, searching the harsh features of her friend, and nodded once, briskly, the decision made. 'I will convene a meeting tomorrow. Potter must be informed and we can start tailoring our plans immediately. Griphook is here. The Goblins have added their numbers to ours.'

'They will be fighting their own. Graploin is leading a brigade in the Dark Lord's army.' She made a noise of disgruntled displeasure and he shrugged. Most species in the wizarding world had proven divided, members arranging battalions on all sides of the line. 'Have the centaurs responded?'

'Firenze returned to us without the marks of physical bruises on his body, which is a positive, but they refuse to commit themselves.'

'Unsurprising.' Snape took a deep breath, forced himself to look Minerva in the eye. She knew instantly that she wasn't going to like his next words.

'Say it, Severus,' she ordered dryly as he delayed. 'I have survived the engineered death of my husband and the deliberate destruction of my life's work. I'm sure I can handle whatever it is you're going to tell me.'

'The spy in the upper echelons of the Order…other than me…' He swallowed convulsively and Minerva felt a moment of sheer panic and impatience. Had he discovered who it was? Had Voldemort told him?

'It's one of the children.'

'No!' The cry was reflexive.

'Lucius Malfoy practically announced it,' he countered quietly.

Minerva sank against her chair, bone-weariness sweeping over her. One of the children. One of _her_ children. There were none from other Houses that were highly enough ranked within the Order to be selling the secrets that were being sold.

'Lavender Brown, Ronald Weasley, Ginevra Weasley, Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter, Fred and George Weasley,' he ticked them off mercilessly. 'Charlie Weasley hasn't been here long enough, Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin's whereabouts have been accounted for by her husband and her boss, and everyone else is older than that. I can testify to the fact that it is not Hermione, and I think we all know that it couldn't possibly be Potter.'

Another pause, and Minerva lifted her head, hearing the unsaid in the heaviness of a silence that only exists when one knows something – and is afraid to say it.

'Ginevra Weasley,' he responded to her prompting look. 'She was possessed by the Dark Lord her first year at Hogwarts. Of all the students I just listed, she and Potter are the only ones that share a direct link with him.'

'St. Mungos wrote a full report certifying that there were no after-effects,' Minerva said with a frown. 'There should be no remaining connection. Certainly not with an adult Riddle returned to his fifty-plus-year-old body.'

'There doesn't have to be a magical tie to bind her to him, or to bring her before him. No one knows what she experienced at his hands via the diary as an eleven-year-old. The subject was closed and tossed aside, much like the report you just mentioned. But there was more to that than meets the eye – much more, as I did not know until I heard Lucius tell a most displeased Dark Lord why he had behaved so casually with a piece of our master's soul. A Horcrux requires a certain level of power in a host witch or wizard, or else it remains dormant. Lucius Malfoy did not give her that book as part of his private spat with her father – as much as it was intended to look that way. His goal was the opening of the Chamber, hopefully to cause the death of his son's Muggle-born rival and Harry Potter's best friend.'

'Sweet Merlin…Hermione…?'

'That was the intention. Like Potter, she has been marked from a very young age. Her intelligence was clear even as a first year, and those who still held to the Dark Lord's line knew that it would cause problems as she matured. Lucius was not the only one who thought that she should be "neutralized" before she could come into her own.'

'But…then, why Ginny, why an eleven-year-old, if a Horcrux needs power? Surely an older student would have been a safer bet?'

'Indeed. I do not know how Lucius knew that Miss Weasley possessed the innate amount of magic necessary to trigger the Horcrux when she wrote in the diary, but it was an investment that at least half paid-off. Ginevra supposedly occupies a unique position – a member dedicated to the Light who has, nevertheless, shared part of her soul with the Dark Lord.'

'"Supposedly"?'

'We do not know her loyalties,' he finished simply. 'This is not an accusation, as I do not know if it is she. But I do know that she is our most rational possibility, and that if we do not stop the leak immediately, the Order will be utterly destroyed before we reach the battlefield. This spy is also reporting on me – verifying my information, as I am certain that my master is using me to determine the truth of theirs.'

'Dear Merlin…reporting on _you_…?' His humourless smile reminded Minerva that Voldemort truly trusted no one – the rapid rise and fall of his favourites stood eloquent testament to his changing temper. His treatment of Bellatrix Lestrange had shaken every Death Eater to their foundations. If she, the sycophantic, savage, brilliant-in-spite-of-her-insanity general had been thrown from the top of their craggy hierarchy, anyone could plummet at any time. The would-be headmistress heard her own heart-stopping dread in her words and swallowed. The loss of their best spy, so close to Voldemort, would leave them blind and deaf.

'Ginny Weasley…if your suspicions are correct…it would kill Harry.' The affection Minerva still harboured for her husband's favoured student was clear in the toneless suffering imbuing her voice, the pain flickering in her stalwart eyes.

'_She_ will kill him – if it is her and she is not stopped.'

~888~

One of the people they were discussing in McGonagall's private study on the third floor of Grimmauld Place was pacing underneath those very floorboards in the room Remus Lupin shared with his currently-absent wife, the greying hair of the werewolf and the glinting copper of Ron Weasley shining in the candlelight.

'We know that we were mistaken in assuming she was the spy,' Ron said, leaning forward in his chair.

'_I_ was mistaken,' Harry corrected him, green eyes as unforgiving of himself as he had proved to be of others in the past year. 'You told me at the time that I was being a right arse about it.'

'Yes,' his best friend replied simply. 'But there is no denying that, given the limited information we had, it was a rational conclusion. We could not have known then what Professor Snape was doing. All the evidence pointed to the contrary.' Harry's jaw worked furiously as Ron casually dropped the name that had caused a rift between the hero and Hermione. The image of his hated professor's face, twisted with loathing when the raven-haired wizard had killed Albus Dumbledore a year ago stood starkly in his mind's eye, one of the memories that time does not wear smooth, the picture that confronted him every time he was forced to endure Severus Snape.

'_You have to mean them.'_ Bellatrix Lestrange's taunt from the Department of Mysteries had remained ingrained in his psyche – and there had been no doubt, in the moment between the headmaster's frail 'Severus, please…' and the blaze of neon-green light that had ended his life, that Severus Snape despised the venerable wizard that had always defended him so firmly to Harry and numerous others.

It was a betrayal that Harry had no room to forgive. He had lost his parents to Voldemort, and Sirius to Bellatrix. No one had asked him to excuse their murderers. The entrenched, stubborn part of his mind had insisted for a year that to grant pardon to Severus Snape was blatant hypocrisy.

'Much of what we know about him has not changed,' the young leader replied harshly, looking to the silent older man for agreement.

'Harry…' Lupin sighed, running a gaunt hand over his worn features. 'I would agree that many of the facts haven't changed – as they cannot. Severus _was _a Death Eater, he_ did_ kill Professor Dumbledore, he _is_ bonded to Hermione, and he _did_ sire the twins. He is not a particularly nice man, and he has spent considerable time honing his skills of cruelty on you personally. But none of these things categorically mean that he is fighting for the wrong side, and at least two of them provide strong incentives to believe otherwise. What you have to judge now – justly, Harry, logically, not using the gut instinct with which you have mutually hated each other for years – is his motivation. We have had at least two possible motives open to us for months – the straightforward view that he is selling us out to Voldemort or, the rather more complicated one presented by Hermione and Minerva. Their evidence tells us that his actions are all that have stood between us and disaster, that he has been the key to our success and that without him, we would likely be struggling to find the second Horcrux instead of having all four locked up in the cellar.'

'_Those who fulfil the most crucial functions in an impossible situation are often crucified for their efforts.'_ Griphook's gruff voice seemed to have ground a permanent groove in Harry's brain.

'You really think he's working for us?' Harry asked quietly, and Ron looked up sharply at the tone. A month ago, it would have been accusing, the kind of voice that defied a reasonable answer, a postscript writing the speaker off as a traitor. Now there was something almost pleading about the question, marked with a confusion and uncertainty that Harry had not displayed in months.

'I do,' Lupin admitted firmly. 'I know what I said at Hermione's trial – I meant it then and I still stand by it, Harry. I will follow your lead because I know that you're trying to make the best decisions for the Order and I know that your honesty won't allow you to do otherwise. But consider the interaction between Hermione and Severus. Look at it with eyes unclouded by pain and untouched by perceived betrayal. Examine it and tell me what you see – and I think you'll continue making the choices best for the Order, best for our survival – and best for you.'

The steady hazel eyes handed him no direct answers, but Harry felt himself filling again with the confidence that had kept him putting one foot in front of the other for the past year. Remus Lupin would not remove the saviour's responsibility – as no one could – but he would help him bear it. Forest-green met sparkling sea-blue as he turned to Ron. His remaining best friend smiled.

'You know I've been convinced about Professor Snape's loyalties since we found Hufflepuff's cup. Hermione's found a way to destroy the Horcruxes – I think it's time we asked her about it.'

Harry nodded, not trusting his voice. He had been delaying discovering the results of her research for the past two weeks since bringing the final piece of Voldemort's soul to the ancient house of Black. It had been easy to do, with the constant gathering of allies, the piecing together of the army-

_-that Hermione has fashioned for you_.

Lupin was right. It was time to exercise the objectivity that Shacklebolt had praised him for when planning their assaults on Longbottom Hall and the ancestral retreat of the Dumbledores in the Orkney Isles. They could not lose the war because of his damaged feelings.

'Tomorrow,' he said firmly, and the look he traded with both of his late-night advisors made it clear that he would not evade the issue again. 'Ten o'clock?'

'We have a strategy lunch at noon,' Lupin reminded him. 'The emissary from the werewolves will arrive at eleven-thirty.' A flicker of a frown darkened Harry's eyes.

'We still don't-?'

'Greyback is persuasive, but I think we'll have a few joining us,' the older wizard cut him off. 'No, we don't know numbers.'

'We'll be able to add Hermione to that session,' Ron jumped in, deliberately holding Harry to his decision with his assumption. 'Ten o'clock.'

~888~

_May, 1997_

The knock at his door came timidly, and Snape could practically feel the fear oozing from the boy standing behind it. The professor removed his spectacles from his crooked nose and pinched the bridge, taking a deep breath. No matter what Lucius' son said to him, he _could not _lose his temper.

'Come,' he grated, glasses folded into his desk drawer as he stood, his robes swirling to encase him like a suit of black armour.

A blonde head poked in, followed by a boot-clad foot, and then the colourless robes of his uniform. Draco Malfoy's face was hidden, his platinum hair swung to obscure it. Snape felt a sudden, unwelcome sympathy welling in him at the awkward gesture, so new to a boy used to showing his face off to the world. It reminded him too sharply of another young man learning to perfect the same art of hiding himself.

'Sit,' Snape snapped, dismissing the rare sensation of empathy. _This_ was the child for whom he was ending his life. The child who had nearly taken his own, unborn children. The door fell closed heavily as Draco sagged into the chair in front of his Head of House.

His voice was deadly as he hissed, 'Explain.'

Malfoy shook his head slightly, a faint movement of hair his weak refusal.

'You must be aware that only the old man's incurable optimism allowed me to convince him you should stay,' Snape said harshly. A lie. Both Snape and McGonagall had argued with the headmaster into the early hours of the morning, both teachers insisting that he must be expelled, whatever the price to the Malfoy family and the war effort.

'An attack like that, when the poison you planted ended up in Weasley's mouth only a few months ago...and you used an Unforgivable. The after-effects on Miss Clearwater were plain. Professor McGonagall is pushing to see you in Azkaban.'

A shudder, the head lifted, and Snape saw a genuine shaft of fear pierce the grey – married to an afterthought of undefined relief. The spy's concern sharpened. If the pressure on the younger Death Eater was so violent that prison was beginning to seem a welcome respite, they were failing.

'I also know your father must have told you that Granger is off-limits. No matter how jumped-up she is, our lord has a use for her.'

'I know.' Draco's voice almost choked on the confession. 'But she could do it.'

'Do what?' Snape seated himself slowly, indicating that despite an unforgiving opening, he was not there to lecture, but to encourage.

'Fix it.'

'What is it you are seeking to fix?' The grey eyes remained on his lap, steadfastly refusing to meet his. "Draco, you have sought the worst possible solution. I have offered you help so many times-'

'So that you can take the credit!' the young man blazed abruptly, stormy eyes meeting the black for the first time. 'You've already taken my father's place – you'd love nothing better than to cement it, wouldn't you?'

'We are all called to _serve_, Draco, not to advance our petty claims of power,' the professor returned brusquely, coldness returning to his voice in full force. 'And you are _not_ doing our master's bidding when you attack someone he has specifically declared off-limits.'

'What does he want her for, anyway?' he asked sullenly, fire banked as quickly as it had flared, gaze dropping once more.

'Considering your inability to complete even the simplest of tasks without causing mayhem, I cannot be too surprised if he elected not to inform you.' Disdain dripped from Snape's voice. 'It should be sufficient that he has forbidden it.'

Silence reigned for a moment. Snape ground his teeth. '_Fix it.'_ Draco was repairing something...but the number of possibilities Hogwarts offered – even excluding what could be smuggled in past an unsuspecting Filch – made estimates and guesswork impossible. Even Arithmancy would find too many variables to create a viable equation to discover what it was. His best opening was the boy himself...but Malfoy had dug in his heels in September, and family pride might push him to jail before he told Snape what he was doing.

'Blaise offered to tutor her in Potions,' Malfoy said suddenly. It was a deliberate diversion, but the professor allowed himself to be pulled along, wondering what the young man was making of his classmate's wholly out-of-character decisions.

'Oh?'

'Yeah.'

'Why?'

'Dunno, really. He's never been into...you know. And it's not like they're _friends_.'

'Has Blaise ever indicated to you that he's changing his mind? That his family's neutrality is not for him?'

Malfoy considered, shook his head. 'No...it's weird. The worse things get, the more neutral he seems.' The grey eyes met Snape's, canniness at work in them. 'But it's not neutral, is it? Offering to help Granger?'

'No,' Snape conceded, mentally moving Blaise Zabini up on his list of mental priorities. If the news was circulating through Slytherin, he needed to know the other wizard's motive, and soon-

-burning. His left arm ached with a sudden, immediate Summons. Clenching his teeth, he flexed his fingers and rose, cursing their master's wretched timing. Draco was delicate...Snape might not get another chance to persuade him, and a terse dismissal attached to automatic punishment would ruin the moment...but the searing would only increase until it ended in seizures and unconsciousness.

No choice. 'You have two weeks of detention, to be served with me. Remember what I have told you – we are here to serve.'

He saw the wide eyes fasten on his covered arm, and as he nodded curtly, the older wizard watched the younger close himself off once more, disappearing into the haughty, half-terrified, half-defiant exterior. 'I have to depart. See yourself out.'

He heard, rather than saw, the door close as he opened the side door to his quarters to retrieve his mask.

~888~

'Get up.'

Limbs shaking with the effort of self-control, Snape slowly complied with his master's order. It was small comfort that he could hear Lucius' raspy breathing on his right, silky hair now clumped in strings and running with sweat.

'And why is it that you cannot control this child? That neither his father nor his Head of House can impress upon him his necessary duty as a _loyal_ servant of mine?' Both men kept their eyes trained on the floor, not wishing to risk drawing the irate lord's attention.

'Bear in mind that _if _the girl has any further problems with Draco, you will both be...corrected...in your management. Severus!' The spy winced at the tone, wondering what else fate had favoured to tell the Dark Lord of today. There had been no hope that news of Draco's attack could be silenced – the Obliviation of Miss Clearwater and Miss Edgecomb kept first-hand witness accounts from flourishing, but Malfoy's private inner circle in Slytherin knew the score. At a bare minimum, Donald Parkinson would have received an owl from his daughter, and doubtless hurried to lay the lion's share of the blame at Snape's feet.

'My lord?' he replied mildly.

'What is this nonsense I've been hearing about Blaise Zabini and an offer to tutor the girl?'

_Of course_. Another baffling secret that could not be kept forever. But in this case, his genuine ignorance would be his saving grace.

'Draco reported this to me only moments before I was summoned, my lord. But steps will be taken to ascertain the boy's loyalties. His family is one all-too-keenly aware of political advantage, and this could be exactly the opening needed. She has been removed from some of her more volatile classes, as you suggested, and Zabini has seen his chance to ingratiate himself. The boy has potential.'

'It is up to you to ensure that his potential is turned to _our_ ends and not those of the old man,' Voldemort answered brusquely. 'Encourage him to befriend her. I expect weekly updates.' An impatient flicker in his eyes dismissed the subject. Spidery fingers drumming the mantle, his slit-like nostrils flared as the fresh smells of growth and loam floated through the cracked window. The red eyes seemed to return to black as he studied the magnificent oak waving just outside the lattice, and his hand lifted, carelessly shooing them out.

Both Death Eaters bowed and backed out of the room, their faces expressionless to keep their relief at bay.

~888~

'Harry – message coming for you,' Ron nudged his best friend at breakfast as the morning mail arrived in its usual cluster of feathers and soft hoots. Once, both Harry and Hermione had been nothing short of delighted by this simple daily miracle – one of many in their shiny new world.

But anxiety now marred even the delivery of the post, and the hall collectively held its breath in case one of their classmates or friends received the Ministry's black envelope. Or worse, if they lived the nightmare themselves.

_He corrupts _everything_ he touches_, Hermione thought. But instead of the drowning weight of sorrow such thoughts usually carried, this morning she felt the stirrings of a deep, primal anger.

It was when fire went snapping up her spine and rustled her hair that she recognized it as elemental power, and took a deep breath, willing it under her control. Flamma acquiesced, but not quietly, and when she lifted her eyes from her plate again, it was to find a scroll thrust under her nose.

'Not mine after all,' Harry said with a smile. 'Yours.'

'What? Oh...from Professor McGonagall. Thanks, Harry.'

'About your independent study?' Green eyes met hers with concern, and Hermione made herself produce a confident smile.

'I'm sure it is. She probably wants me to get some extra reading material.'

'You know, I think these independent studies are their way of giving you more work than any sane person would dream of doing,' Ron suggested with a smile.

Hermione merely raised her eyebrows at him and chose not to deign to reply. She slit the seal and unrolled the top portion.

The missive in their Transfiguration teacher's fluent hand was surprisingly short.

_My office. Immediately after breakfast_.

Hermione stuffed the last piece of toast in her mouth, prayed that her recent remission of morning sickness held, and lifted her bag, charmed to weigh practically nothing while still carrying just about anything.

'See you guys at lunch,' she said quietly. 'I've got to get to McGonagall's office.'

Instantly, they rose with her. 'You're not going anywhere on your own,' Harry said firmly, casting a cold glance at Slytherin's table, where Draco Malfoy sat alone and hunched miserably over a cup of tea he was absently stirring.

A younger Hermione would have objected, and brought all of her overbearing bossiness to the fore to convince them. But her last encounter with the Malfoy heir had landed her in the hospital and should have cost her the twins. That it had not was a peculiar side blessing of her bond with her professor. She couldn't trust their lives to chance again.

So she smiled instead at these two boys who had filled her heart for so many years and nodded.

The three of them trailed out the door, the signal for all of the sixth and many fifth years of their House to rise and follow them.

At the Head Table, three pairs of eyes watched their departure with grim satisfaction. Gryffindor House was repairing itself from within.

~888~

'Take a seat, Hermione,' her Head of House waved her into a chair, complete with a steaming cup of tea on the lacquered tray next to it. Hermione sat, curious. When dealing with academic subjects, Professor McGonagall deliberately stressed her last name, keeping to the formalities.

Whatever her professor wanted this morning, it had nothing to do with her independent study.

Hermione took the tea and sipped it, wrinkling her nose as she recognized the infusion as one of Madam Pomfrey's many medicinal blends. A shame it couldn't just be strong, sweet black tea like she was used to. She tilted her head at Professor McGonagall as the straight-backed Transfiguration teacher reached into a desk drawer and withdrew a sheaf of parchment.

'There's a great deal for you to do, my dear, so I shan't beat about the bush,' the older witch said, passing the parchment across the desk. Her light-blue eyes fastened on the pages in Hermione's hand. 'I believe I have found a family for you.'

The Gryffindor forced herself to sit very still. _You wanted it,_ she reminded herself ruthlessly as she felt her heart plummeting, her throat and mouth suddenly dry. _You asked for her help. You know you can't keep them..._

The papers her teacher had handed her nearly six weeks ago were tucked into Hermione's trunk, most of them unread. With Malfoy's Unbreakable Vow and unpredictable attacks, with Harry's obsession that occasionally and eerily mirrored the tendencies of the Dark Lord, with Ginny's nightmares, Zabini's questions, and especially with learning about Elemental Magic, her pregnancy had taken on a quality of the unreal. It just...it wasn't pressingenough to demand her attention.

Hermione felt a faint whisper of gratitude, tainted by shame. She wasn't _willing _to think about it. But her professor, completely occupied with preparing for the demise of her husband and the closing of Hogwarts, had taken the time. 'Thank you,' she pushed herself to say.

Her eyes fell on the first, crisp lines of writing. The family's location. What their qualifications were, their names-

She couldn't suppress a gasp of shock. The names set out neatly at the top of the page read, _Jonah and Nisa Zabini-Ollivander_.

~888~

He was right there on the map. All on his own in the boys' bathroom. Well...with Moaning Myrtle. But she couldn't do anything to stop him. There would never be a better time.

Harry knew that Malfoy was serving detentions for his fight with Hermione. In a blatant concession to the facts, only the blond had been assigned to two weeks worth of after-hours with a variety of professors, but the Boy-Who-Lived burned with the need to mete out a more personal punishment. How could Dumbledore just let this go? Like Malfoy cared about detentions. He had a Dark Mark on his left forearm. His reward for killing Hermione would be worth his expulsion.

With the silent training he'd cultivated in the DA, Harry slipped the door open, wand at the ready-

-and froze, his feet rooted by the unexpected. Malfoy was bent over the porcelain sink, his knuckles white and his arms shaking with the force of his grip, head bowed to hide his features. His breathing was broken, streaming out in quiet sobs.

'Don't. Don't...tell me what's wrong...I can help you,' Myrtle cooed softly. Harry couldn't see the ghost, but she could be anywhere.

'No one can help me.' Malfoy's voice trembled, a leaf struggling to anchor on a tree in a gale. 'I can't do it...I can't...It won't work...and the Mudblood...unless I do it soon...he says he'll kill me.'

The tear-stained face lifted, red carving tracks in a pearl complexion, and Harry was swamped by a pity so vast it seemed to rupture the foundation of his fury at his nemesis, giving birth to a reluctant understanding-

-and then Malfoy's grey eyes fastened on his rival's reflection in the spider-cracked glass. The terrified, bewildered boy disappeared, engulfed by an enraged man. Spinning, the Slytherin's wand extended, curses already spewing from the tip.

Harry hastily threw up a shield, thinking _Levicorpus!_ with all his might. Malfoy blocked it easily, returning fire with a Slicing Hex that missed the Gryffindor and exploded the bin just behind him. Harry winced as a bit of metal penetrated his shield and sliced his leg. A Leg-Locker Curse missed his opponent, shattering a cistern and spraying water all over the slick marble floor.

'No! No! Stop it!' Myrtle was screaming, and the boys ignored her out of habit, six years of frustration released on an unlikely battleground. Harry felt his sneakers slipping, his feet sliding out from under him, and the marble met his elbow at an agonizing juncture as he heard Malfoy begin:

'_Cruci-'_ Just like the duel with Hermione. If the Slytherin finished the curse, Harry knew he wouldn't be getting up. Desperation fuelled him, and his wand slashed wildly.

'_SECTUMSEMPRA!'_

Blood spurted everywhere.

~888~

Snape's heart wrenched painfully, squeezing too tightly, and then hardly at all, bringing black to the edges of his vision. He knew his head had hit the desk when he heard the _clunk _it made, sounding distant as he strained to listen inward, to the heartbeat coming erratically and too softly – a hummingbird's wings beating against glass. And with the surety granted to him by a mother's desperate demands, he knew:

Something had gone terribly wrong with Draco.

Planting both palms flat on his desk, he forced himself up on shaking arms. The twisting had not ceased. Nor would it, until he could get to the boy.

Through months of secretive work that had worn the young wizard ragged, through minor Quidditch accidents and the semi-deadly duel with his bondmate, the side effects of the dark wizard's Unbreakable Vow had never activated.

Somewhere in the castle, Draco Malfoy was dying.

His hands were still pushing against the wood as though it were all that anchored him to life. Gritting his teeth, he continued upward until he was standing. He sent a wry thank you to the Dark Lord. A lifetime of torture had given him the strength to save Draco's life – and his own.

With steps that grew less halting as he strode from the dungeons, he ran a mental list. The boy had carefully covered his tracks, to be sure, but there had to be a way to find out exactly where he was...

Potter's map. If he could find Potter...

But the next thing he heard erased his need to search.

'MURDER!'

It was Draco. Boots eating the ground beneath him, the professor blazed around the corner, continuous sobs leading him-

-to the floor outside the boy's bathroom, which was soaked with water. Something silvery flashed above the growing pool, a wispy shape taking form.

Moaning Myrtle. Of all the ghosts to have sounded the alarm...this would be all over Hogwarts within minutes.

'Get out of the way!' he snarled at the spirit and threw open the door, barely hearing it slam against the wall.

His nose registered the blood first, before his eyes found the sprawled figure of Draco Malfoy, hair soaked with slimy water and streaks of scarlet. Snape's first emotion – relief that he could still see the rise and fall of his student's chest, faded as he took in the amount of blood spread across the marble.

The second figure, frozen in a stunned crouch next to the Slytherin, was Harry Potter, staring at the damage he'd done and whispering, 'No...'

Snape cursed all three of them as fools. Potter's significant power was rapidly progressing, and Malfoy had clearly made the Gryffindor boy desperate for _Sectumsempra _to be so successful.

_Of all the spells in the book, I never expected him to use _this_ one_, he admitted to himself. He had underestimated the boy – and Potter's deep-seated hatred of Malfoy. But the would-be saviour had to learn that descending to the Dark Lord's level was only going to ensure defeat. The use of Dark Magic, however alluring, was not the way to victory.

But this was not the day. There would have to be time for that lesson later. Potter's recklessly unleashed power had opened over a half-dozen wounds, and his student was bleeding to death before his very eyes. Falling to his knees in the water, Snape began to trace a healing spell over the marks, a low song issuing from his mouth. He had little doubt that his elements would be more effective, but the Gryffindor staring on in absolute terror must not draw the connection between his best friend and most hated teacher.

A second repetition, his voice soothing the gashes as they began to stitch themselves back together. Malfoy stirred, opened his pale grey eyes, and his skin moved from pasty to ashen as he saw his professor bent over him.

'You need the hospital wing,' he ordered gruffly, lifting his student upright, allowing the boy to lean on him. 'There may be a certain amount of scarring, but with dittany we may be able to avoid even that. Come.' He started for the door, turned back to where Potter still sat hunched over a pool of swirling water and blood.

'And you, Potter. You wait here for me,' he ordered coldly, the fury in his voice genuine. Darkness could not fight darkness. The Gryffindor had to be cured of his desire to match hate with hate.

The boy's stricken face told the teacher that _this _was one order he had no fear of being disobeyed, and then Snape was staggering once more for the hospital wing, Draco Malfoy's hands clasped about his neck like the five-year-old child he once had been.

~888~

'Harry! What happened?' Ginny and Hermione were both standing at the portrait hole when Harry flew back in the second time. He had raced in before, soaked with water and covered in blood, demanded Ron's _Advanced Potions _text, and torn out, leaving their questions to sputter on their lips.

Now, he was minus a textbook, but the blood and water remained.

'Upstairs,' he said brusquely, not wanting to remain in the common room and endure the stares of their peers. Neville, Dean and Seamus quickly joined them on the staircase.

'I heard something about Malfoy-' Ginny started as soon as the door closed on their heels.

'Myrtle said murder-' Dean quickly added.

'Michael Corner said the girl's bathroom on the second corridor is completely flooded-' Seamus pitched in.

'What happened, Harry?' Hermione cut them all off sharply, taking in her best friend's drawn features and tight swallows.

'Malfoy,' he muttered, staring at the crimson rivers running in the creases of his hands.

'He attacked you?'

Harry winced. 'Kind of—'

'You attacked him,' Ginny frowned, wrapping an arm around her boyfriend's shoulders and urging him to sit. Harry collapsed on the edge of Ron's bed without protest.

'Kind of.'

'Duel?' Hermione guessed, pressing when it was clear that Harry wasn't going to spill the details willingly.

'Yes...it was. I wanted...' Harry's green eyes lifted, locked on Hermione's, and his voice strengthened. 'Malfoy could have killed you. It certainly looked like he tried. And what? He's still here? Wandering around like _nothing _really happened?'

Neville, Dean and Seamus swapped confused looks, glancing between the pair. Hermione had begged Harry, Ron and Ginny not to spread the news of her fight with Malfoy. The rumour mill had no idea how serious it had been – and she preferred to keep it that way.

'So you decided to take revenge?' Ron asked hesitantly, blue eyes worried.

'A little? I don't know, really...I just...I don't want him trying that again. Not on either of you.' Now his gaze flickered between Hermione and Ginny. 'But he started to use the Cruciatus-' everyone drew a sharp breath at that, '-and I didn't even think. There was a curse in the Half-Blood Prince's book. It said 'for enemies'. I just reacted. And Malfoy...'

The jade eyes dropped back to the blood on his hands, and Harry began to shiver violently. He had endured danger, death and torture, had felt his own blood slicking his skin a number of times. He had fought with wizards of every age and ability.

And for the first time, as he had watched Malfoy collapse like a broken puppet onto the cracked tile of Myrtle's bathroom, Harry knew he had killed someone. He had set out to teach the snobby blond a lesson – and taken his life. Snape's arrival, their incredible luck that he knew the counter-curse, was all that had saved the Slytherin. Left to Harry alone, Malfoy would have bled out on the cold marble. And he wouldn't have been able to do anything about it.

_He didn't care about Hermione_, a voice offered, but the raven-haired wizard could not make himself accept the excuse. Because that was all it was. When he had waved his wand to deliver the curse, he had been ready to do whatever it took to stop the other boy. And the spell had answered his command with frightening finality.

Vomit rose in his throat, and he bolted upright, sprinting for the bathroom. He heaved the contents of his stomach into the bowl, sweat beading on his forehead. He continued to retch long after there was nothing left, as if his self-loathing could be spewed out with the bile.

He was aware, dimly, of hands on his back and forehead, of the gentle touch of Ginny's broom-callused fingers on his cheek and Hermione's ink-stained digits as they thrust a glass of water at him. He swallowed gratefully, closing his eyes against the burning in his throat and the turmoil in his heart.

When he opened them again, he could see Ron standing against the door frame, blocking the rest of the room from view. Hermione rose from where she squatted in front of him. She stood slowly, and for a moment it looked a lot more laborious than it should have, but her words, and the quiet venom of her tone, chased the impression away.

'Where is your potions book?'

~888~

'How could you?'

The book had had asked Potter for a scarce half-hour prior hit his desk with a _thud_. Snape brought his head up slowly, black eyes taking in the young woman vibrating with anger before him.

'How _could_ you?' she repeated coldly. 'How could you leave that in his hands, knowing what was there? Having _written_ what was there?'

He met her gaze placidly, a deliberate contrast to the amber in her expressive eyes darkened with emotion. Her mind was shielded, earth and flame hissing at the borders of their merged mental space, but he didn't need the bond to feel her rage.

He could feel his temper stir, but it fizzled. Between the shock of adrenaline and fear at the thought of losing his student, and the extremity of his displeasure and anger at Potter, the professor's emotional reserves were exhausted. He didn't have the energy to respond to Hermione's ferocity.

'So Potter bears no responsibility for his own actions?' Snape asked quietly, holding her frozen with his glance. 'He has no part to play in this? In trusting a book when he doesn't even know the author? In using spells and curses carelessly and experimentally? In being foolish enough to practice for the first time on a _human being _instead of on inanimate objects, as he has been taught from the instant he set foot in this school?'

'Don't you dare turn this around on him,' she snapped. 'I'm not saying that he doesn't deserve punishment—'

'Deserve? He deserves expulsion – as did Draco Malfoy for what he did to you.'

'But _you_ wrote it!' she interrupted angrily. 'You have a responsibility for the information you give to others!'

At this, Snape rose abruptly, sending his chair backwards, and Hermione knew she had broken the restraint he had been struggling to exercise in the face of her rampant explosion.

'Yes. I wrote it. And my alterations on potions and analysis of poisons has taught _your _friend more in eight months than five years of my teaching. It kept Ronald Weasley on this side of the veil. And next year, when the school is no longer open and you are standing not in a classroom with a teacher to make you behave, but on a battlefield in a _war_, where there is no such thing as good behaviour, the knowledge gleaned from this book can save your life. And the lives of those you love. You think me careless, Hermione? That I would casually place that book in any hands? That it was randomly left in that cupboard? That Potter just _happened _to end up with it in his possession?'

'There are things in there that are dangerous!' his bondmate protested.

'Yes. There are. And I will confess...' He watched Potter's shoulders rise and fall in his mind's eye, shuddering in guilt and horror, unable to believe the damage he'd done, unknowing, even to his most hated enemy. Even to the boy he'd sought out, intent upon revenge. Anger drained as swiftly as it had arrived, and Snape felt _old._ He had seen self-hatred and disgust in those green eyes. Potter shouldn't have used the curse. Shouldn't have been able, shouldn't have wanted to. But in spite of that, the younger wizard had needed the lesson he learned today. Needed the understanding that had arrived too late.

'I never thought he would use that curse. It's marked, in the book. There's a note of warning.'

'Why is it there at all?' Hermione asked. He was grateful to see that her fury seemed to have blown itself out slightly, and her voice was quieter, though no more understanding.

'My sixth year marked the escalation of the Dark Lord's first rise,' Snape told her tiredly, righting his chair and waving her into the armchair by the fire. A flick of his wand warded the door. 'My years at Hogwarts were surprisingly similar to yours – a threat looming over us, slowly gaining ascendency, something we could safely ignore as younger children. But during my fifth year, rumours became solidified facts, and during my sixth, the Dark Lord declared open war on the Ministry. Hogwarts was deeply divided, much as it is now, and students fought viciously. I was good at hexes and curses – I had perfected all the minor ones at home for reasons of my own before coming here – and my abilities kept me safe. Both from other Slytherins and those outside my house.'

'But Harry told us he thought...he was afraid he'd killed Malfoy.'

'Good. He has to learn that this is not a game. Had they been anywhere else, he might have. As it was, medical attention was essentially immediate, and Draco will be fine in a few days.'

'It's a Dark spell. Why not erase it if you wanted Harry to learn from the book?'

'A knife is not evil, Hermione. It is merely a tool. _Sectumsempra_ is meant to be used with finesse. It's like a long, thin blade, intended to make precise, shallow cuts. It is intended as a duelling curse, not a killing one. Potter was desperate, and in his desperation, the curse swelled in scope and power.' He held up a hand, allowing his mind to open enough to send her a muted warning. 'It was unintended. And I will grant that it is my fault as well as his. Thank you for returning this to me,' he swept his old book off his desk and tucked it out of sight behind other books on his shelf. 'It is yours, as of the end of this year. It will help you.'

Hermione nodded and sat back in her chair, one hand idly running over her slowly expanding belly as she let the wrath that had driven her here dissipate. Games within games within games. Everyone was playing them. She and Blaise, Snape and Dumbledore, Harry and Malfoy. It was the story of the war unfolding around them.

_A war you will never see_, she promised the children under her fingers. At halfway through her pregnancy, her belly was beginning to round more than a little – becoming something that loose school robes alone wouldn't hide for long.

The thought triggered her memory of her meeting with McGonagall a handful of days ago. Struggling to exercise caution, the bondmates met at unpredictable times, and never as often as they wished. She had yet to speak to him regarding her Head of House's surprising proposal.

'What is it?' he asked, attuned as ever to the faint vibrations of apprehension running through their bond.

'I talked to Professor McGonagall,' Hermione began hesitantly. 'She found a family. In Argentina.'

The young witch was looking into the fire, but she could feel her bond mate freeze for an instant, regret tingeing his emotions before he forced it away and asked evenly:

'Indeed. And?'

'Did you know that Blaise's second cousin is married to Mr. Ollivander's grandson?'

~888~

'You wanted to see me, sir?' Blaise Zabini slipped through the door to his professor's office, the 'neutral face' his mother had trained into him firmly in place.

His student's voice was moulded into a tone of perfect respect, though his slightly widened black eyes betrayed anxiety. Impressed against his will, Snape nevertheless thought that his Slytherin had every right to be concerned. In six years, the dark boy had never been invited to his Head of House's office for any reason.

The Defence professor pushed his remaining papers aside and re-seated himself as the dark boy stood formally before his desk. The professor purposefully pulled off his spectacles and tucked out of sight under a potential avalanche of parchment. It was time to engage the heir to a fortune almost as large as the Malfoy's without warning his student about what he was doing.

'Seat yourself, Mr. Zabini,' Snape offered, waving to an armchair. 'This may take a little time.'

He let the boy stew as he purposefully stacked the rest of his papers, setting them aside and then steepling his fingers as he watched his student. Zabini sat straight-backed in his chair, but other than rigid posture, nothing indicated unease.

'I have heard it said that you offered to tutor Hermione Granger in the Potions class that she has dropped.'

Surprise flashed, furrowing the high, smooth forehead briefly before it unwrinkled itself and Zabini entered the dance as his professor expected.

'I did.' Two beats and a hesitant, 'Is there anything wrong with that, Professor?'

Snape tilted an eyebrow. 'You have lived in a dormitory with Draco Malfoy for six years. You tell me whether there's "anything wrong" with volunteering to teach the best friend of Harry Potter in a one-on-one situation.'

The whole body tensed now, expectations of the blows to come manifesting in the suddenly-stiff forearms and locked spine.

Zabini made sure his eyes were carefully averted from his teacher's – there were rumours of Snape's powers of Legilimency floated about, and he was in a position where he adamantly desired _not_ to test them. He knew from Draco's mild slips that his classmate perceived Snape to be on "their side", and the blond's sudden over-protectiveness of his left arm made Zabini quite sure about which side that was. Everything he hoped to accomplish, as well as his family, and himself, could turn to ash in the next twenty-four hours if his Defence professor read his mind.

'I don't see what Draco has to do with it,' he said, pulling out his best "confused child" voice.

Snape was shaking his head. 'Do not pretend ignorance. Your family is neutral in our current conflict, Mr. Zabini,' and the half-Egyptian's gaze sharpened at the genuine bleakness tainting the clipped words. 'This leaves them, while powerful, utterly devoid of protection. Should either faction choose to go after you, the other will not interfere. Choose carefully who you are seen with and what you are seen to be doing. We live in a time where your actions, though you are barely of age, can have a rippling effect on all those you care about. You are living on a battlefield and no longer have the luxury of a child's spontaneity. Your defence of Ginevra Weasley has already birthed a host of potential problems – her position and yours make it impossible to interpret your actions neutrally.'

Zabini's eyes involuntarily reached for his teacher's, seeking the truth behind a man he'd never met. This was not the Head of House that Pansy had been terrified by earlier this term, nor the biased professor Draco had strutted to impress. The advice was…sound. Trustworthy. And completely shocking, considering its source.

'_Encourage him to befriend her,'_ his master had ordered. And he would. But not for the Dark Lord's gain. Puzzles within puzzles.

'However, all that being said, I...applaud...your efforts at inter-House unity. It indicates a maturity beyond your peers and, indeed, the trends of our time. Exercise caution, Mr. Zabini, as you continue.'

He watched his student's face carefully as Zabini absorbed his professor's advice. Without needing Legilimency, Snape could see the wheels turning, the confusion at hearing something so different than what he had expected slowly turning into respect and a multitude of questions.

As the last appeared, Snape rose, indicating the interview over. This job was done, for now.

'Sir-?' Zabini began to ask, mirroring his teacher's movement unconsciously.

'I have grading to finish. And I am sure you have other things to do with your day,' Snape told him, calmly and firmly. Large almond eyes regarded him seriously, and the younger wizard bent his head in respectful obedience.

'Thank you, sir, for your time.'

The door closed on the heels of another child he was encouraging to join a war that belonged to his parents' generation, and Snape pulled his spectacles out to continue grading.

It was a long time before he reached for the next essay.

~888~888~888~888~

A/N: Thank you all for reading! Of course, the bathroom scene between Harry and Draco belongs to canon and appears in Half-Blood Prince.


	13. The Best Laid Plans

Disclaimer: Not mine, all the characters and the world belong to our dear Ms. Rowling.

A/N: Two updates in (almost) one year! Who would have thought…? I know that's not the best track-record, but I am working on it, and I very much hope that the fourteenth chapter will be following hard on the heels of this one. For those still reading and reviewing this piece, thank you so very much for you continued patience while I slowly stitch it together. I hope that everyone enjoys this chapter!

The Best-Laid Plans

_June, 1998_

The hand that gripped her upper arm had thick fingers and ragged cuticles around uneven, yellowing nails. It was a hand that should belong to a man like Mundungus Fletcher.

But regardless of the unfamiliar shape and size, the fingers bruising her bicep sent ice splintering through her nerves as only one man could. The Death Eater who had shackled her.

'Mister Malfoy,' she murmured, throat suddenly dry as her body went cold, all sunlight sucked from the day. She was in the middle of Ottery St. Catchpole's teeming Muggle market on summer's morning, shopping for breakfast items. The crowds around her abruptly became too bright, too cheerful, too innocent. In their midst stood a man who would murder any of them without disturbing a single hair on his head...and they simply jostled past him, as if he were no more worthy of notice than anyone else.

'Kind of you to do our breakfast shopping. Our lord has a few...questions...he wants answered.'

'Now? But I can't...I'm expected back!' she squeaked, trying to wrench away from her squat-looking captor.

Lucius tightened his meaty, Polyjuiced fingers cruelly. 'If you attract attention, girl, so help me, they'll find you in pieces.' He jerked her around to face him, ensuring that whatever panic she expressed, he'd be the only one to see it. 'Your shopping will simply have to take longer than usual. You know our master – he _hates_ to be kept waiting.'

Keeping a hand on her elbow in the parody of an escort, he directed her into an empty alley, swept his arm around her, and Disapparated.

As they appeared in front of the nightmare house that had grown all-too-familiar, the rough-neck, wharf-rat disguise Lucius had used to sneak up on her in town vanished. He grew taller, shed his greasy brown hair in favour of the pristine white-blond of his true appearance, the fingers on her arm elongated and thinned.

But they did not lessen their pressure as she was marched upstairs, basket still in her free hand, eggs radiating the faint warmth from the summer sun that Apparition had not dissipated.

The lithe figure rose as she entered a room straight from the finest Victorian houses, lipless mouth curling as she bowed, Malfoy's hand firm on her back, forcing her down.

'Rise, child,' Voldemort bade her almost gently, coaxing in the voice that haunted her dreaming and waking hours. 'I have heard a rumour of Goblins joining the Order of the Phoenix. I wish to know who, and when, and where.'

A carton of strawberries levitated from her basket and the lord eyed them critically, finally plucking one and sending the rest to Lucius with a flick of his fingers.

Red juice dyed his fingertips crimson, a parody of the warm season's delights. 'Tell me.'

888

A knock on her door met the dawn light just now streaming through her windows of Grimmauld Place and brought Hermione's head up from the journal she was translating. Prior to leaving Hogwarts, she had only had the time to deal with a few, crucial passages Dumbledore had passed to her regarding the taming of the Elemental Magic she and Snape had triggered so unexpectedly.

In the months since they'd discovered and recovered the second missing Horcrux, there had been precious little that she'd been allowed to do other than spend hours with her books. As a girl, Hermione had liked to do nothing better than curl up and read – in her father's armchair, in bed, in the library's cosy corners. After discovering the joy of doing her own research in a makeshift Potions lab in the Burrow two summers ago, the young woman had cultivated a dream of spending her life on reading and experimentation once the war was over.

The irony of having her wish granted so precipitously was not lost on her. It had never occurred to her that her uninterrupted time would come at the cost not only of her friends, but the respect of nearly everyone she had spent her magical youth yearning to become.

Carefully returning her bookmarker to the ancient text and casting a shield over the volume to repel even the motes of dust glittering in the morning's first rays, she crossed to the door, skipping the floorboard that always creaked, and opened it quietly.

Ron stood in front of her, copper head gleaming from the sun streaming through the skylight, cup of black tea flooding steam into the morning air. She smiled in simple, genuine delight to see him standing there. He had done his best to stand by them both these last, trying months – and even though Harry had needed him more, Hermione hadn't felt abandoned by him.

'Morning,' he greeted her, and wrapped her in a one-armed hug as he held the tea away from them, boiling liquid sloshing against the sides.

'Morning,' she replied, but her smile had become tentative as she saw beyond the former Keeper's large frame to the slighter man she still loved like a brother – and feared she would never speak to or laugh with again.

'Hermione…' Harry was at a loss for words. There seemed to be new lines cut in his friend's face, a previously unnoticed grace about her movements, and a nervousness at seeing him that scored fresh wounds in his heart.

And while his brain dithered about what to say and how to say it, his body moved without his consent. He stepped forward as Ron deftly moved back, reading Harry's intention as the boy-general wrapped his best friend in a strangling embrace.

'I've been such a pillock, 'Mione,' he whispered raggedly in her ear. 'I'm so, so sorry. I can't…I don't…' His words had lost their coherence, but he felt her relax into the fierceness of his hold, and the warmth of fire mingled with the rich smell of earth to accept his apology in a language that surpassed spoken assurances.

Harry and Hermione felt the longer reach of their staunchest supporter enfold them both, and for a long moment, they stood together as the triad they had once assumed they would always be, and were now taking steps to ensure they would be again.

Flamma and Terra spiralled around them enthusiastically, caressing all three faces wet with unfelt tears. The raven-haired wizard gazed down at the amber-and-cocoa eyes of his best friend, truly accepting the elemental charge and its attendant power for the first time.

Rustling in the crib behind them brought all three back to the attic of Grimmauld Place. Hermione let a real smile curl her lips and light her eyes. There was much to figure out and to understand before all could truly be accepted and forgiven. But Harry Potter, the determined, marked boy she had come to love her very first year in their world, was in front of her now, and they would mend.

'Harry,' she said, taking his elbow and leading him towards the crib where dark eyes were opening and identical, if vague, smiles were cracking on the twins' faces. 'Allow me to introduce Astyanax and Andromache.'

888

_June, 1997_

The candles scattered in a semi-circle around her flared as Hermione focused, eyes closed, on the internal flame that she had gradually coaxed, through weeks of practice, out of isolated bursts of unconstrained magic and into becoming her partner, welding it with the wand-art she had begun learning at eleven to change her magic. It was rather like taming a Hippogriff. The magic studied by the wizards and witches of the Ang'guin Weyr lived up to the name they had given it. Fire and earth did not respond to orders or commands, nor would they consent to funnel neatly through the length of wood she had always thought indispensable in her adopted world. In place of a tool she used, she felt a distinct sense of shared ownership that permeated and flowed through the four elements that had graced them at birth and emerged with the consummation of their bond. She and Snape were their vessels, and by that same token, the enormous power granted by Raw Magic was a prize given to the humans who had surrendered to its pull. Learning to ask and receive, to take and to give from the foundational magic that laced the globe, was an art lost a thousand years ago when Hogwarts had been born.

The easy, fluid motion she used to reach both within and outside herself, fire streaming down her arm to meet pulsing strands of flame flowing to her fingertips from the thick candles around her, was a movement that belied hours of practice and months of meditation.

A rustle of water. The kiss of wind.

She could feel her bondmate's presence behind her, could feel the chill of water that laced his being, the polar opposite of the fire tumbling a few inches above her hands. She could feel the elements readying to strike, magic massing together behind her and over her head. The Gryffindor witch could _feel _fire and earth constantly now from dual sources. They were a bedrock within her, lending her strength and confidence. But they were also _everywhere_ else. What she had initially thought to be merely an increased sensitivity to magic had evolved into something entirely different. She was aware of the heat in the air around her, the warmth that came from other bodies, the stones underfoot and the earth under them, living, breathing, and gently shaping the world.

As her school-trained magic had shifted to align itself with her now-expressing native gift, she had found herself attuned to the passage of magic in the air. Like a finely-tuned instrument acquiring thousands of radio waves, a low level current of magic constantly danced across her skin as her peers practiced and her professors perfected technique. The magic of the wizarding world shared a closer link to its origins than anyone now living suspected.

The biggest shock had proven to be her classmates. Spells, hexes, curses, potions, and even Arithmancy equations carried emotional and elemental tails their casters never noticed. Every time a wand was used in any of her classes, Hermione could track the faint magical signature.A detached part of her brain marvelled at the rest of her kind. How could they work magic in a world with this perception denied them? How had she?

Lost in her musing, she nearly allowed Snape to catch her. He attacked, and water was slicing towards her, freezing as it came down—

With a fluid movement, she swept upwards, regaining her feet as Flamma poured itself into her Shield Charm. The strike dissipated as she parried, sending hexes guided by earth and fire, her wand lying forgotten on the floor.

888

In Gryffindor Tower, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley sat in their long-staked-out chairs by the large fireplace. Midsummer was fast closing on them, and the wood sat unmarred in the grate, not to be set aflame until the next September or October.

Lavender Brown perched on the wide arm of her boyfriend's chair, Ginny curled into Harry's side, the wide armchair roomy enough for witch and wizard. Neville, Dean, Seamus and Parvati were pressed together on the couch, with both Creevey brothers adorning the ends, third-year Dennis' slim legs dangling over the floor.

They formed a close-knit circuit, heads bent together in a fierce discussion. There were more people involved than Harry had counted on, but all had been members of the DA the year before, and there was no reason to exclude their input on the current subject: Snape had taught Hermione an extremely difficult and advanced technique in their private lessons, and just last night, she had told Harry and Ron that she had reached proficiency and wanted to teach them.

The broody wizard had been grimly delighted by the suggestion. He hadn't trusted Snape for years – the overheard conversation his Defence professor had been having with his Slytherin rival at Christmas had merely cemented a long-cherished suspicion. Anything they could use against Snape, especially tools he, himself, had handed them, was a welcome addition to their battle.

'…the DA started again?'

'I've been wondering why we stopped,' Neville admitted candidly. He slipped a hand into his robes and pulled out the Galleon Hermione had enchanted for them eighteen months ago. It glinted gold in the afternoon sunlight.

'The Slytherins have been giving some of us good practice,' Ron said, giving Harry and Ginny even stares. The couple glanced at one another, and then back at the group clustered around them, refusing to comment.

'We just haven't made the time,' Harry admitted. His index finger went to his scar, rubbing the old wound reflexively even though it never ached any more. 'But I've been working with Dumbledore…and I think we should recall everyone.'

'What's happened, Harry?' Dean was leaning forward.

Harry exchanged weighted looks with Ron and Ginny. The siblings tilted their heads in encouragement, and the boy-turned-hero took a deep breath. 'I can't tell you everything. But I can say that Malfoy has been working on a secret project this year. A project related to Voldemort – and the Death Eaters. I'm positive he's been given a deadline. By the end of this month, he will have to have done whatever it is he's doing. And when that happens, the school will need protection.'

'You want us to provide that,' Parvati said quietly. It wasn't a question, but Harry confirmed it with a nod.

'There's no one else to do it,' Ginny pointed out. 'Dumbledore's been gone half the time this year, and there are only a few Aurors posted to the school.'

'And Hermione has a bit of research she's been doing to help us train,' Ron added. Cued by the missing third of the trio's name, two heads turned to the massive clock ticking over the mantle. 'Speaking of which, we're due to meet her in the Room of Requirement in twenty minutes. Who's in?'

A rapid, fleeting and entirely wordless conversation took place between the ten seated students, after which Harry and Ron rose purposefully and, flanked by their fellow House-members, exited Gryffindor Tower in search of their training ground.

888

Hermione swallowed the last of her bitter, medicinal tea, carefully placing the delicate china on the silver tray. Her mouth twitched as an index finger ran over the slender handle. The many facets of her bondmate intrigued her – it seemed every opened cabinet and unlocked door revealed another piece of his fluid personality. The complete, pristine Chinese tea service was yet another peculiarity that dotted the landscape of Severus Snape. If asked, she would have assumed that he drank out of any mug that came to hand. But the full complement of cups, saucers, teapot, sugar pot and milk pitcher of flawless porcelain were clearly cherished, and the way her professor's fingers played over the raised pattern of detailed grapes and vines betrayed their regular use.

Raising tired but exultant eyes to the clock ticking softly over the marble mantle, the young witch suddenly shot from her chair, wincing as her twins kicked in two distinct thumps and her back twanged, reminding her that they did not enjoy abrupt movements.

She placed a hand on her swelling belly, visible now when she removed the protective glamours, sending a silent apology to her protesting children. 'I have an appointment I have to keep,' she told her bondmate. The intensity of her private study in Defence Against the Dark Arts was finally yielding fruit. Yesterday, she had managed to repel and re-direct every single one of her bondmate's attacks without resorting to elemental means.

It was time to teach Harry.

'Indeed.' He stood as well, his own exhaustion from working with their elemental magic obvious in the languid looseness of his limbs – a state of relaxation he did not allow himself in any other setting. 'Zabini?' The eyes she was just now learning to read glimmered with concern, enhanced by the vague disquiet that vibrated along their bond.

She shook her head. 'No. Not this time. We talked a bit yesterday. This is…something else.'

Her evasiveness startled him, and his frown cut a deep 'v' between his brows. 'Hermione…' he started.

She shook her head. 'It's something with Harry, Severus.' Snape's mouth twisted at the fate that had forced all of them into the awkwardness of living in a world where even distribution of knowledge could be a fatal flaw. Hermione certainly didn't know all of what he knew – and she had insisted on keeping some of what she was actively researching with Potter from him. It unsettled him, but he couldn't deny that it was a just precaution. Dumbledore was adamant that Potter seek the Horcruxes independently of Snape's knowledge about the pieces of the Dark Lord's soul – making secrecy not only desirable, but a necessity.

'Exercise caution,' he finally said, allowing a long hand to reach out and gently caress the robes stretching over their children. Hermione kept her eyes fastened on his face as the taciturn spy allowed his walls to crumble briefly, his expression of wonder and contentment mirroring that of any soon-to-be-father as he felt his son and daughter beating their fists and feet against the walls of their cocoon.

His other hand came up to stroke her face, and the precocious witch felt her heart fill to overflowing at the tenderness in his touch, cherishing the man he hid under layers of intellectual and emotional isolation, a man that emerged only for her, the man he could have been for others if fate had been kinder.

His heat-hardened fingers danced around to the back of her neck, soothing her wild hair out of the way as he brought his mouth down in re-affirmation of the attachment they shared—

—the wards around his office ignited. Someone had just entered the dungeon classroom he had held sway over until this year, and they would be at the door to the outer office in less than a minute. Snape cursed softly, allowing his mouth to brush her forehead before placing distance between them. An abrupt gesture to the hidden door that emptied into the corridor was her wordless dismissal and she tilted her head in silent acknowledgement, smiling at his impatience in spite of the sudden adrenaline rush that had left her breathless, and the burning longing he had awakened.

The corners of her mouth faded as she watched her bondmate retreat into the armour that had kept him safe over the course of two wizarding wars. Warmth disappeared, shutters slamming closed in the dark eyes, making them onyx in place of velvet. The lines good humour had cut in his forbidding countenance were blurred and replaced by their cousins, those carved by his harsh tongue and scathing rebukes. As he turned, his back straightened and his robe billowed. His public mask of condescending indifference was complete – and he did not spare her a glance as he strode back into the restrictions life at Hogwarts had given him.

She ducked behind the tapestry and into the hall.

888

'All right, Hermione?' Ron asked as the wild-maned witch rushed through the narrow door of the Room of Requirement.

She smiled at him in answer, but her mouth transformed into an 'o' of surprise when she saw the number of heads turned in her direction. Every single member of the DA from the previous year was present with the exception of Cho Chang and Marietta Edgecomb, and their absence was more-than-made-up-for by the presence of a half-dozen students that hadn't joined under Dolores Umbridge's reign of terror.

'I thought this was going to be you, Harry and Ginny,' Hermione murmured.

Her raven-haired best friend read the shock on her face and quickly crossed to her. 'I know we talked about it just being us. But Neville overheard us talking today and said that the whole DA should really be given a chance to learn it. Even though it's practically the end of term already, I have to agree – the more of us who know advanced defensive magic, the better.'

Hermione swallowed nervously. _'That will be your task.' _Her bondmate's words from months ago when they had commenced learning Mirror Defensive Spells echoed in her mind, along with his warnings about their difficulty. Her own experience of taking slow weeks to reach even a basic proficiency boded ill for the majority of her peers now crowding around them. Harry had the requisite power, and so did Ginny. Ron would develop it. But as for the rest…

The effort required wouldn't hurt them, and at the very least, it would allow them all practice with their non-verbal shield spells. Though none of them yet knew it, Severus Snape and Albus Dumbledore were steering them all down a path that ensured Hogwarts' closure at the end of the year. They would need what they had learned from Harry to survive.

Hermione tilted her head at Harry, ceding her worries to his leadership and allowing herself time to force the lump in her throat to dissolve as she steadfastly pushed her morbid thoughts from her mind.

Everyone's eyes were still on her. She realized that although their former leader had called them all together, she was their teacher today. Her mouth dried nervously, but she quelled her anxiety. This was not the Riddle House, the Department of Mysteries or even her exams. It was the DA, and she owed them her best. 'Partner up,' she ordered. 'This is called a Mirror Spell, a non-verbal form of magic that not only protects you, but turns your enemy's spells back on them…'

With the same conscientiousness that they had employed in obeying Harry's instructions the year before, her classmates and the younger years broke into pairs, spacing themselves throughout the room in a wide pattern they had learned through practice – and some from violent experience. When most had assumed duelling stances – some few being quickly corrected by Harry and Ron – Hermione began to explain a magic she could only hope would save their lives.

888

'Last one of the year, my boy, and seeing as how Quidditch season is over – and that lovely girlfriend of yours bagged the Cup for Gryffindor in your absence – you can't possibly have a conflict this time!'

Horace Slughorn chortled, so pleased with his logic, and himself for finally having cornered the elusive Gryffindor Seeker, that Harry couldn't think of a single objection to offer before the Potions Master was waddling away, ignoring Ron as he had done so steadfastly all year, and leaving both wizards dumbstruck and seething in the corridor.

The only part of the year left were exams – classes had finished. There were two weeks remaining until the end of school. And Slughorn _insisted _on having a last dinner. Harry had to physically bite back his revulsion. The idea of breaking bread with the likes of Cormac McLaggen – who's whole world consisted of his narrow, self-focused desires and was completely out-of-step with the escalating war – and Blaise Zabini – who was roommate and friend to the boy who had turned the whole of Gryffindor's sixth form upside-down this year – was unbearable to the point of actual pain.

'We should go,' Hermione said quietly as she approached them, keeping their agreement to meet after their last class. 'And we should get him to invite Ron.'

The blue eyes of the youngest Weasley son widened in alarm at her suggestion. Amongst the many signs of his rapidly expressing maturity was Ron's sanguine acceptance of their professor's fame-focused blindness. 'You and Harry are welcome to keep the privilege of those dinners to yourselves,' the tall wizard assured her.

'I thought they were a waste of time?' Harry bit at her, irked by the fact that he had been so neatly snared. There was little chance of his getting out of going unless Dumbledore requested his presence. He knew he could ignore the invitation, but the sheer rudeness of that didn't sit well with him. And as Slughorn was both the ex-Head of Slytherin House and someone the Death Eaters had actively tried to recruit, Harry was hesitant to insult him for a mere few hours of time.

'Why are you so keen on this one?' Ron asked, frowning thoughtfully. Hermione glanced around the long dungeon hall, and shook her head.

'Not here.'

Glancing at each other over her head, the boys took an arm each and steered the much-shorter witch into an empty classroom.

Hermione explained. Ron's face was a picture of unflattering disbelief – mouth open and all. Harry's green eyes narrowed to slits with displeasure.

But they agreed.

888

Hermione was at her sink, studying the dark circles rimming under her eyes. They were gradually growing less prominent as sleep and diet slowly improved, fading from the stark purple-black of bruises to the shadows that had haunted her all six years at Hogwarts.

As she withdrew to give her teeth a final scrub with her toothbrush before snuggling into her soft bed, she felt the faint tickle of a command hovering at the back of her thoughts, straining to reach her.

The plastic toothbrush clattered into the porcelain bowl as she grasped for the mental thread. Even with improved control, her bondmate seldom attempted to communicate in words – the exceptions being if they were standing in the same room.

Even so, as she focused, honing on the mental voice like a radio seeking tuning, she caught the simple order. _Professor Dumbledore's office._

888

Hermione gazed up into the face of the unmoving guardian that had stood so unwavering in front of the Headmaster's Office for a millennium.

She had re-dressed as hastily as possible after catching her bondmate's command, casting longing looks at her bed. Strenuous magical exercise, lack of caffeine, and her body's need to nourish the twins left her struggling to keep her eyes open by dinner. Today, meeting with both her bondmate and the DA meant her exhaustion hadn't even been allayed by her usual half-hour nap between the end of classes and the evening meal.

It was now eleven o'clock at night, and a solemn sorrow, an indescribable weight, had settled just below the young witch's sternum as she gave the password that moved the gargoyle aside to reveal the twisting staircase within. What awaited her at the top of the stairs was the pronouncement that would set in motion the destruction of the final trappings of her childhood – and the abandonment of the institution they all so deeply loved.

Opening the door, she found her three professors already present, fatigue cascading from the older trio as they turned to greet her.

'Hermione,' came both the baritone of her bondmate and the alto of her Head of House.

'Minerva. Severus. Headmaster.' Though her Transfiguration teacher had invited Hermione to use her first name, and she had earned the right to use Severus', Albus Dumbledore retained the vestiges of the pedestal she had placed him on as a child at her Sorting. To address him informally would be to surrender the shreds of that child.

'Albus—' McGonagall swung back towards her husband with the clear intention of pursuing whatever Hermione had interrupted. She was stalled by the rare, gentle hand of her colleague on her shoulder.

'Minerva…there is no other way.'

Her pinched-lipped, angry retort was stalled as Dumbledore met his student's eyes. 'I have found a Horcrux.'

She nodded, once, all-too-aware of what that meant. 'Where? When will you get it? And how?'

'The where I will leave Harry to tell you, and also the how. As of yet, we don't know—'

'You intend to take Potter—' Snape's growl was cut off by McGonagall's equally sharp:

'Albus! You can't be serious about—'

'Harry's not a child, Professor.' Hermione met the startled, dark-blue gaze of her Head of House. Hogwarts' premier student had always been scrupulously attentive and respectful of her teachers – flouting rules only when she could justify her actions. She had never deliberately interrupted one before.

'None of us are,' she continued with quiet confidence. Her professors had not been treating her like a child – or a student – for months. She had shouldered an adult's responsibility at age twelve by solving a riddle that sent her best friend forward to meet Voldemort, and stepped into the self-proclaimed lord's direct line of sight by her unusual relationship with his spy.

'Thank you, Miss Granger,' Dumbledore said, his blue eyes tired and twinkle-less, 'for reminding us all of that truth. She is right.' His aged fingers tapped a parchment that had still-glistening ink scrawled at the bottom. 'This denotes Harry as your partner in leading the Order, Minerva – as an equal, not a student. And it is vital – if he is to recover the remaining three on his own – that he understands the way that Voldemort thinks, the feel of his magic, the depths to which he is willing to go to protect these pieces of his soul. Harry goes.'

'When?' Snape grated, clearly displeased and also plainly aware that there was nothing any of them could say to change their employer's mind.

'A week from today.'

Silence. Again, Hermione could hear the ticking of the clock as the tiny, gold second-hand moved in its rigid circle, counting down the beats of the headmaster's life.

They all knew it. A blue pair of eyes met and held, and as onyx met amber, the younger wizard and his bondmate rose, not needing a dismissal. 'Good night, Minerva, Head…Albus,' Snape said, and his voice was rough with a grief that would never find expression.

Hermione's own throat had closed so tightly she could not utter a sound. A bow of her head to her headmaster and his wife had to suffice before she stepped onto the staircase and into Snape's waiting arms.

They spoke no words as the stone stairs carried them downward, and even the merged world of their minds was numbly empty, a dry desert crackling restlessly at the edges, waiting for the imminent storm.

His grip on her tightened as they neared the exit, and the world in which mutual dislike and disdain were their cover.

'You need to spend this week preparing Potter – and the rest.'

'And our lessons?' she asked.

He shook his head.

'Am I not to see you at all before…?'

The contraction of his hands around her thickening waist, the feeling of his nose buried in the top of her head gave her the answer.

She did not protest. The time for such dramatics was past. Given her choice, she would spend every waking and sleeping moment in his presence, treasuring their explorations of mind, magic and body. But it was not hers to decide – and even if it were, she could never be so reckless.

Tilting her head back, her mouth turned up in invitation. He captured her full lips with his thin ones, allowing her small, sweet tongue that still tasted of toothpaste to tease his that carried the remnants of coffee. The passion that had been forced down, untapped, poured out with their fear, their uncertainty, and their grief, fusing in the crucible of their purpose and their burden.

Snape shuddered, a release of distress and guilt, his arms contracting about her so tightly they felt like lashes binding her ribs, and drew back slightly. The wavering fire of the torches flared, throwing sparse illumination on his features as he gazed down at her, obsidian eyes travelling slowly over her face as his hands moved reverently over the planes of her body.

His fingers completed their circuit in their favourite place – on her belly. His eyes burned as they stared into hers, reflecting the orange-yellow sparks of the wall sconces.

Without a word, he stepped backwards, releasing her, opening the gargoyle and exiting in a single fluid motion.

Tears, hot and spiky, pricked at the corners of Hermione's eyes as she watched him stride down the corridor and disappear around a corner.

He had bid her goodbye.

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The next week passed in a strange combination of time slowed strangely – the hours between lunch and dinner stretched for a lifetime – and time that vanished without ever being used. She glimpsed her bondmate briefly – seated at the staff table, billowing through the hallways, chastising erring students from all Houses. Making himself increasingly unpopular. Making the break cleaner, his leaving easier, when the time finally arrived.

They had DA practice every day. She meditated, bending fire and earth to her will, every morning and evening.

And every night, as she wriggled under her light blankets, the heavy comforter long-since stored away for next winter, her brain supplied, unbidden, the shrinking number of days they had left.

Tuesday night, they had their final dinner with Horace Slughorn.

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As his end-of-the-year farewell gift, their rotund Potions professor had invited each of the members of his Slug Club to bring a guest. True to the plan they had concocted, Hermione invited Ron, Harry spoke to Lavender, Ginny brought Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbottom got Parvati Patil. The invite-list had been made deliberately to keep perceived slights and shifts of favouritism at a bare minimum, while still packing the dinner with a large number of Dumbledore's Army.

Blaise Zabini entered the large, opulent office alone, a fact instantly noted by one witch and two wizards, through swiftly-raised eyebrows were all that greeted this unexpected boon. Another pair of eyes noticed, and chocolate-milk-brown met the almost-black gaze of the half-Egyptian with frank curiosity. Zabini acknowledged Ginevra Weasley and their brief, one-time camaraderie with a faint curve to his thin mouth.

McLaggen entered with a fourth-year witch who was hanging on his every word. His loud bluster went ignored or, at best, coolly recognized by his fellow Gryffindors. The rest of the club entered in pairs, drawing out seats and exchanging meaningless congenialities about exams, the weather, and the rapidly-approaching summer.

Dumbledore's Army was sprawled along a line of chairs, occupying fully a third of table, keeping their conversation determinedly light, even as the occasional awkwardly-thrown arm or re-adjusted leg told the careful observer that each had a wand sheathed and strapped to a limb under their robes. At Harry's order, they were purposefully disregarding Hermione's foray to the other side of the House line – the first such move she had made in so blatantly public a space.

'Zabini.'

'Granger.' He took a sip of water and graciously handed her an untouched glass.

'Thanks.' She drank in a mirror image of his motion. 'About our independent study…there's an offer open, if you want to talk about it later.'

His almond-shaped eyes did not flicker from hers, though she knew he was as aware of the number of Gryffindors present as she was. A tilt of the aristocrat's head was all the reply she got. It was enough. She retreated to the other side of the room as Slughorn entered and genially invited them all to sit down.

The Gryffindor witch allowed her mind to wander through the meal. A lifetime's habit kept her fork moving between plate and mouth, and years of engaging in verbal play allowed her to seem attentive to the conversation without ever really listening. Hermione let the subjects wash over and around her. Part of her marvelled at the frivolity – who could plan to go griffin hunting, or Loch-Ness-monster-seeing with Voldemort's star rising so swiftly? – and another part of her envied their innocence. Even their own excitement of the coming summer – Bill and Fleur's approaching wedding – seemed surreal and unlikely. In twenty-four hours their world would come unglued, as the impossible occurred and the war escalated. And none of them, not even the copper-headed siblings gently teasing Neville, or the scarred wizard politely listening to another improbable Lovegood tale, were aware of it.

'…and of course I'll be having a big do at the beginning of next year.' Slughorn was making a final toast; chairs were being pushed back from the table. 'Have a good holiday, everyone!' he waved them out, shaking hands and slinging an arm jovially around some shoulders – including Harry's.

'Write if you need to, m'boy! I'm immensely looking forward to your final year at NEWT level!'

'Thanks, Professor,' Harry replied politely, surreptitiously shifting so that the wand bound to his left forearm wouldn't jab his teacher.

Zabini had already set off at a casual pace in front of them, his leisurely stroll allowing time for half the Gryffindors to shortcut through tapestry-hidden corridors and get ahead of him – ready to cut him off at the juncture where this hall joined the large atrium just outside the Great Hall. It was the place where the four Houses split to wind their way into their separate quarters. That made it the best place to trap the Slytherin without arousing the suspicions of any of his Housemates who were inclined to pay heed to portrait gossip.

Hermione, Harry, Neville and Parvati formed the rear, while Ron, Ginny, Lavender and Luna hurried ahead to overtake him.

Zabini was almost to the stairs that would lead him downward into his dungeon common room, when three Gryffindors and a Ravenclaw seemed to blossom from the stone in front of his eyes, and stood directly in his path.

They said nothing, and though their stances were alert, they didn't thrum with the expectation of attack or defence as Gryffindor's Keeper jerked his head at an empty classroom. Turning warily to obey, the darker wizard saw the remainder of the crowd coming up behind him. He opened the door, and, as courtesy dictated, waited while Hermione and then Ginny sailed through it. A rapid look towards the remaining girls told him they weren't coming, as Harry and Ron gestured for him to follow them.

When the door _snapped _shut, and a Silencing Charm had been placed on it, an audible sigh raced through the room, and the tension eased somewhat. Wondering what he had done to earn himself the presence of Potter's entire, if informal, inner circle, Zabini found himself facing a very serious pair of brilliant green eyes.

'Hermione says you want to join the war against Voldemort. Why?'

'Wanting to save the world isn't a good enough reason?' The slightly sardonic tone to Zabini's voice was not lost on his peers.

'Not when your mates include Malfoy,' Ron said icily, his blue eyes pronouncing dismissal.

'Wait – Ron…I think he's telling the truth,' Ginny objected. She studied the proud, scornful face, the dark eyes that masked emotion. The face of her unexpected rescuer in a hallway several months ago. 'He…helped…me. At the time, you wouldn't tell me why. Now I want to know. Why did you defend me against your Housemates that day?'

The Slytherin's dark eyes cut to Hermione, but she merely returned his glance inquisitively.

'Helped against – what happened?' Ron asked quickly, a note of anger creeping into his voice.

'Nothing terrible, Ron—'

'Your sister was attacked. By Pansy Parkinson and several others from my House. I was near. I offered my assistance in repelling them.'

'Why is _now_ the first we're hearing of this?' Ron irately demanded of his sister, at the same time that Harry pressed:

'Why did you do it?'

Zabini sighed. 'I had just finished speaking with Granger for the first time. I know that Gryffindors like actions to prove words – and it seemed a good time to begin.'

'And the reason we should accept that this is genuine and not a deliberate ploy to sell us out is…?' Harry asked dispassionately.

The wizard he was interrogating favoured him with a searching look. '"Slytherin" is not synonymous with "mindless bigot", Potter, no matter how much some of my Housemates provide evidence to the contrary. There are any number of us who have no wish to have tattoos carved in our flesh. What most of us lack is an escape route that doesn't condemn our families. I decided to forge one.'

Harry studied the boy standing unruffled and at ease in a room full of potential enemies. The years he had spent at informal war with Draco Malfoy – from childhood spats to full-out adult battles – urged him to _Obliviate _the Slytherin, walk out the door, and pretend this conversation had never taken place.

But his gut instinct told him Zabini was telling the truth. Hermione and Ginny both believed him. Abruptly, and a little absurdly, jumbled pieces of the lyrics of the Sorting Hat's song at the opening of his fifth year nudged to the forefront of his thoughts. '…_Have the Houses been united, as they once were meant to be…Condemned I am to split you…we must unite inside her, or we'll crumble from within. I have told you, I have warned you, let the Sorting now begin.'_ And the worry he'd never been entirely able to shake – no matter how many chats with Dumbledore he had, the knowledge that he, too, could have been part of Slytherin House…

Would he question the part-African if Zabini were in Ravenclaw? Or Hufflepuff? _No. _The honest answer instantly presented itself, and with it, his reply.

'Ok.' Harry ran a hand through midnight-black hair, met Ron's light-blue gaze decisively, saw his best friend's acceptance, and hardened his resolve. 'We'll need to meet as soon as school is out. But before that, there's something we really need to know…'

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Climbing into bed that night, Hermione's internal countdown clock struck zero.

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Wednesday evening saw all the sixth years and many others clustered together in the common room, tables awash with parchment, books, quills, ink and snacks provided by the ever-eager House-elves to assist in preparing for the last of their exams. The younger years were elsewhere – mostly outside near the lake, enjoying the mid-summer sun that would not set until well after ten o'clock and curfew.

Hermione was ostensibly revising, as she knew was expected of her, but her eyes flew to the portrait hole every time it creaked open. Would Dumbledore deliver his summons through a student, as usual? Or was the graveness of the situation such that Professor McGonagall would come for him?

Her gaze travelled over the boys she loved so dearly, and felt a smile curl one corner of her mouth. A far cry from the lax students they had been just a year prior, both were studying intently, the majority of their focus on layers and layers of parchments holding Herbology and Potions notes. The loss of Snape's text meant that Harry's Potions work had suffered accordingly, and Transfiguration, Defence and Charms were wand-heavy subjects. Between DA practice and pitched battles with the Death Eaters, their wand-work was in better form than Hogwarts had seen from sixth years in decades.

Flipping a parchment around to squint at all angles of a plant diagram they'd drawn in Herbology, Harry didn't seen Jimmy Peakes until the Beater was standing right next to him.

'I'm supposed to give this to you,' he told his Quidditch captain, handing Harry a rolled-up parchment. Heads came up from books, and Neville and Seamus stopped practicing their non-verbal spell work.

'Thanks, Jimmy,' Harry said, his tone of voice a casual dismissal. He unrolled the narrow missive.

'It's from Dumbledore!' His eyes met Ron's with a fierce excitement as the whole table leaned in. 'He wants me to go to his office as quick as I can!'

'Blimey...you don't reckon...' Ron trailed off, well aware of the whole sixth year's curious ears. But not all of them knew the actual objects of Dumbledore's quest. 'He hasn't found...?' He let his raised eyebrows complete the thought.

'Better go and see, hadn't I?' The green eyes were almost feverishly bright as Harry stood; forsaking his books and the notes he'd been copying, ink still glistening as it soaked into the parchment.

'Harry – be safe,' Ron warned. The other wizard's mouth twisted slightly, but he jerked his head in acknowledgement. The red-head turned his attention to his other best friend, who was watching the Seeker with water in her eyes and pain on her face.

'Hermione?' he queried gently.

His voice jerked her back, erasing the expression that made her look both old and sad, returning to placid calm. 'What is it?' he pressed.

'What's what?' she returned. 'It's nothing, Ron. I'm just worried about Harry, that's all.' She turned her attention firmly back to her Arithmancy text, leaving the youngest Weasley son, once again, with the distinct impression that she was hiding something.

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When the portrait opened again to admit him, only Ron and Hermione were still seated at the table that had previously held most of the year. As the Fat Lady swung forward with a faint creak, both heads snapped to Harry, like Basilisks scenting prey.

Hermione half-rose from her chair in unconscious protest of the violent brightness to Harry's eyes and the almost-frantic swiftness of his stride. There was more here than a hunt for Horcruxes.

'What does Dumbledore want?' she asked, knowing she was expected to. 'Harry, are you ok?' She seized his arm as he made to go past her. He tossed her a tight grimace that was meant to be a smile as he shook her off and continued past her up the staircase to his dorm. His answer was taut and terse:

'I'm fine.'

'D'you think—' Ron was on his feet now, too, and staring after their best friend, his freckled face puzzled and worried. 'Should I follow him?'

'He'll be back,' she whispered. Her gut was churning. Knowing what was about to happen was, if anything, worse than the many misadventures they had shared in ignorance. Dumbledore was spending his last night alive taking the raven-haired wizard in search of a piece of Voldemort's maimed soul, and those left behind had to be ready to reconstruct the world he was taking with him.

The thunder of feet on stone warned them, and Harry came hurtling back down the stairs, the shimmering material of his Cloak streaming behind him, the familiar parchment of the Marauder's Map clutched in his right hand, a strange lump in his left. This time, the hand Hermione held up to forestall him wasn't necessary. He jerked to a halt before them, breathing hard, the wild expression of excitement and anger from moments before slightly banked. 'I haven't got much time. Dumbledore thinks I'm getting my Invisibility Cloak.'

'Why, mate?' Ron interjected quickly.

Green eyes flashed triumphantly. 'Horcrux. He's found one. We're going to get it.'

Ron let out a low whistle, an echo of his friend's excitement flaring to life in his blue gaze. 'Now? Are we—?' the red-head gestured to Hermione and himself, but Harry was already shaking his head.

'No. You need to be here. On my way to Dumbledore's office, I met Trelawney on the seventh-floor corridor.' He paused here as eyebrows shot up, and the three exchanged apprehensive glances.

'The Room—' Hermione started softly.

'—of Requirement,' Harry finished grimly. 'She'd been thrown out of it. She heard someone celebrating – and then she said everything went dark and she was tossed out.'

'Malfoy,' Ron said flatly, glancing at the wild-haired witch now biting her lower lip. For once, Hermione did not object. They were right – and it was too late, now, anyway, to change what would happen.

'You see what this means,' Harry continued seriously. It wasn't a question. 'Dumbledore won't be here tonight, so Malfoy's going to have another clear shot at whatever he's up to. We know it was Malfoy celebrating in the Room of Requirement. Here...' Hermione found herself holding the frayed, blank map that had accompanied them through Hogwarts for nearly four years. 'You've got to watch him.'

The jade of Harry's eyes darkened as he ruthlessly held Hermione's chocolate gaze, 'And you've got to watch Snape, too.' Again, she offered no protest, mutely accepting his orders. 'Use anyone else you can rustle up from the DA. Wake our whole year. Dumbledore says he's put extra protection on the school, but if Snape's involved, he'll know what Dumbledore's protection is and how to avoid it – but he won't be expecting you lot to be on the watch.' As he said the last, his thin mouth twisted in an expression of hatred that so mimicked Snape, Hermione's breath caught in her chest.

'Harry—' She wanted to warn him, console him. But her tongue failed her, and he turned away impatiently.

'I haven't got time to argue. Take this as well.' The peculiar bundle of pale-green knitting was thrust into Ron's hands, who turned it over, frowning.

'Thanks. Er – why do I need socks?' he asked.

'You need what's wrapped in them. It's the Felix Felicis. Share it between yourselves and Ginny too.' He hesitated, wondering if he should send Hermione upstairs to bring his girlfriend…no. She would insist on going with him, and he would willingly step in front of Voldemort's _Avada Kedavra_ before he would allow that to happen. He owed it to the Weasleys to keep her safe. He swallowed the lump that was fear he would never touch her again and said: 'Say goodbye to her for me. Dumbledore's waiting.'

'No!' Hermione said sharply as he made to swing his Cloak over his shoulders and disappear. 'We don't want it, you take it, who knows what you're going to be facing?'

Harry wasn't remotely tempted by the little bottle that could guarantee this night's work a success. He would only be able to concentrate with Dumbledore if he knew those he loved at Hogwarts were protected by the powerful potion Slughorn had brewed.

'I'll be fine, I'll be with Dumbledore. I want to know you lot are okay...don't look like that, Hermione,' he said as she swallowed convulsively, the fear in her eyes enhanced by a sorrow and a compassion he would have to seek the reasons for later. He reached out, tucked one of her many stray curls behind an ear – and found himself hugging her with all his might.

'Be careful, Harry James Potter,' she whispered fiercely. 'I'll kill you myself if you don't come back.' All three smiled wanly at the threat as Ron and Harry clasped firm hands.

'Take your DA galleon. Heat it if you get in trouble. We'll find you,' the Quidditch Keeper advised.

'It's in my pocket. I'll see you later...'

The Cloak was on, he had disappeared from view as they had seen him do so often before, the portrait opened once more…and he was gone.

Witch and wizard locked eyes. 'I'll wake our dormitory,' Ron said heavily. Hermione nodded.

'I'll change my galleon to call the DA.' As her tall friend took the stairs two at a time to rouse the boys, she spread the Marauder's Map on the table that had held innocent homework only an hour before.

'_I solemnly swear I am up to no good…'_

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The Slytherin common room was empty, the only movement the emerald fire in the grate, flames licking soot-darkened stone even in late June, the dungeon House forever cold.

The sound of hurried footsteps rushed over the carpet, and the once-sleek blond head of Draco Malfoy came racing from the mouth of the stairwell leading to the boys' dormer. He moved with a frenetic, unchecked speed, his usually composed face a story of triumph, dread and anxiety as he tossed a swift glance around the silent space and proceeded to the door.

'Draco.'

The Malfoy heir halted abruptly at the sound of that voice, reining a string of stinging invective he longed to loose on this intruder, turning slowly on the spot as he wondered which curse would be most effective to bind his roommate to silence.

'Blaise,' he returned stiffly.

'I would advise against doing this.' For a heart-burning moment, the platinum blond wondered how his aloof, disdainful classmate had discovered what he was doing before dismissing the flash of fear. Most of his year knew he was performing a task for the Dark Lord – his arrogant assurance earlier in the year had guaranteed that – but even Crabbe and Goyle hadn't been told what.

'Since we're trading un-asked for opinions, allow me to give you one,' Malfoy returned coolly. 'Keep your head down and stay in bed tonight and none of this will bother you.'

The half-Egyptian shook his head. Malfoy tensed. Cursing one's own Housemates was generally considered bad form – and in Slytherin House, could amount to a declaration of private feuding between powerful families. But if Blaise tried to stop him, he would have no choice. The Dark Lord was depending on him. And his parents…

'This is a _school_, Draco.' Blaise jerked his head towards the dormitory stairs where the rest of Slytherin – most of them younger – slept, oblivious. 'We shouldn't bring them into this.'

The doubts Malfoy had struggled to keep at bay crowded around him at these words, threatening to overwhelm him…The brittle strokes of his mother's last letter intruded on his vision, keeping remorse at bay. 'I made a promise. I have a duty.' His wand came up, unwavering. 'Do I have to curse you to do it?'

Almond-shaped black eyes still on his grey, Blaise shook his head in the negative. 'Good.' The wand went back into Malfoy's pocket, the stone door grated open, and he strode into the corridor without a backward glance.

Reaching into his own deep pocket, Blaise pressed his wand to a golden coin given him by a Gryffindor witch with mahogany tresses. It heated, and the numbers on the coin morphed into words.

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Many floors above him, Hermione felt the burn of a galleon in her robes as Ron hastily organized the defence, the Fat Lady thrown open wide to admit those from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff hurrying to join them.

The message was not unexpected, but the words felt like ice cubes sliding along her spine and into her stomach. _He's coming._

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A/N: Thank you all for reading! As usual, please leave me a note to tell me what you thought. For the parts that were recognizable as Rowling, the conversation when Peakes gave Harry the note from Dumbledore and when Harry came back from seeing Dumbledore, are lifted from HBP, pages 539-540 and 551-552, British edition.


	14. The Lightning Struck Tower

Disclaimer: Not mine, all the characters and the world belong to our dear Ms Rowling.

A/N: A benchmark chapter. As you can tell, it bears the same name as the famous chapter in HBP. Why improve upon perfection? This is a part of canon that many of us have written on or around. I hope you enjoy my treatment of it.

The Lightning-Struck Tower

_June, 1998_

Snape paced in front of the young woman standing ramrod-straight in front of him. The long black of her Death Eater's robes draped about her like a shroud, but her hair shone in the torchlight like a waterfall of gold, and her expressionless face was un-masked in the presence of the man who had hand-picked her from the Dark Lord's ranks to join the elite cadre of Assassins.

Of his choices from the younger generation, this one showed the most promise of turning the bloody fate she had chosen for herself aside, and reminded the saturnine wizard of one of his few reasons for continuing the charade he had longed to renounce with Voldemort's return.

'You wished to speak to me, Miss Redson?'

She jerked her chin sharply, eyes still focused straight ahead, and he waved a long hand, granting her permission.

'Sir, a few days ago…you asked us to think on who would have power, once the Dark Lord rises.'

'Indeed.' He schooled his features to deliberate neutrality as he ceased his pacing to stand directly in front of her.

He saw the faint movement of a controlled swallow that betrayed her nervousness. Her dark eyes connected with his, and he was abruptly struck by her youth. A scarce three years older than his bondmate. Than all the would-be seventh-year students of his House who looked to him for guidance and protection. It took all of his considerable years of training not to reach out and place a hand on her shoulder, to offer some reassurance…

He shook himself mentally, and allowed his irritation at the unbecoming and distinctly out-of-character surge of emotion to flicker across his face. He knew his Assassin would take it as impatience, and hurry her tongue.

'I wish to…ensure my status…in the coming world order.'

He did not blink. He did not allow the hundreds of hopes suddenly streaming across his mind to enter his fathomless gaze. The careful turn of phrase, the hesitation in her speech – she had taken precautions, in case his previous conversations had not meant the things she thought, in case someone delved into her mind or his to find and peruse this moment, to sound merely ambitious. Not traitorous.

'I see. You are young, yet, but there may be…a place for you. Rewards are given to those who serve, Redson.'

'I wish to serve.' She drew herself up, and Snape checked his surprise as she boldly met his stare, the irises of her eyes faintly clouded as she employed Occlumency. There was more to this than her tentative understanding, and when she spoke again, her voice vibrated with the formality Voldemort insisted upon between the lower and higher echelons of his followers. 'Master Snape. When we strike Hogwarts, I request to be placed in charge of the assault on the Astronomy Tower.'

Snape cocked his head, steepling his fingers and wondering if this were another trap laid for him by the jealous and long-out-of-favour Bellatrix, the way he had been double-bound by his Unbreakable Vow. The Astronomy Tower presented the best ground to occupy in the entire castle – and an Assassin's skills could be put to use to fell those on either side.

It was critical that whoever was assigned to that post, their sympathies did not lay with the Dark Lord.

It was the post he had intended for himself.

He pulled a long breath through his nose as he considered how to answer.

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_June, 1997_

Ron tapped the map lying spread on the table, its four corners anchored by heavy Defence tomes that had served as references for the DA both under Umbridge and over the past two weeks. The more-than-thirty members of Dumbledore's Army were crowded around him, shoulders jammed together as they tried to pack as many around the rectangular table as they could.

The black dot labelled _Draco Malfoy_ was travelling fleetly, traversing stairs and halls as it ascended from the dungeons to the seventh-floor. Along the corridor, it doubled back on itself twice…and disappeared.

'The Room of Requirement,' Ron said. Neville, Lavender and several others nodded grimly. 'We don't know what, exactly, is going to come out of there. But whatever it is, it's going to be dangerous. Something we don't want here. Ginny.' His sister's brown eyes snapped to his blue at the unmistakable note of command in his voice. 'Take Neville and Lavender. Wait directly outside the Room. You are our first line of defence against what or who Malfoy is bringing out with him. I'll come join you.' Ginny tilted her titian head in acknowledgement, and slid out of the common room with the two sixth-years at her heels.

'We also don't know how many will come out. The first line may be overwhelmed,' the Quidditch player continued heavily, pushing away the part of his brain that was screaming with horror for writing off his little sister. Harry had left them the Felix. 'Dean – you'll take Seamus, the Patil twins and the Creevey brothers. We don't know which way he'll come, but most of the dormitories are this way – and the rest of the school is empty. Stay behind these corners – there's a tapestry and two statues that make ideal hiding places.' There was much jostling as a half-dozen bodies clustered closer, fingers tracing the route Ron had mapped for them, and then sharp nods as they, too, withdrew to take their positions.

'You heard Harry, Hermione,' Ron turned his attention downwards to the friend on his right side. 'Snape also has to be watched. Take Luna and go sit outside his office.' The miniscule dash of ink labelled _Severus Snape _was stationary in the room that belonged to him.

'Snape—?' Susan Bones started to ask, startled.

'Harry overheard him offering to help Malfoy. Until we know more, we have to assume he's the enemy.' Although he was, ostensibly, answering Susan's question, the last was said with his gaze fastened firmly on the formidably intelligent witch next to him. Hermione's relationship with their Defence professor this year had been…peculiar…to say the least. She had nursed him back to health in the Burrow not a year ago, and as Harry's suspicions rose regarding the light and dark Slytherins, she had made it clear she wanted no part of his theories.

But such division of purpose would not serve them now. Fortunately, she voiced none of her doubts – if, indeed, she still had any. The wild curls dipped briefly in acquiescence, and the straggled, dirty-blond head of Luna Lovegood followed Hermione into the corridor and down the many stairwells towards Snape's underground office.

'What about the rest of us?' Ernie Macmillian asked, re-directing Ron's attention from where he had been worriedly watching his other best friend descend willingly into danger.

Ron looked over the map again, shook his head. 'Guard your Houses. There's no way of knowing what they're after, but anything other than human lives can be replaced. If they aren't interested in us, so much the better. Macmillian. Corner. Can I trust you to guard Gryffindor Tower?' The Gryffindors had all been previously deployed. They had more battle experience than all of their peers and many of their professors combined – a consequence of being Harry Potter's friends and roommates.

The Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw exchanged surprised glances before nodding.

Silence engulfed them, and the youngest Weasley son found himself at the centre of the expectant hush. He could feel their anticipation, knew they were waiting for him to say something final, something dismissive…

His gut twisted. He was a chess player – good at seeing the big picture, excellent at planning strategy. But words had never been his forte – neither written, nor spoken. Hermione was the intelligent one. Harry was the inspiring one.

'Good luck,' he settled for saying shortly. It was enough. Housemates rapidly filed back out through the portrait hole, hands thrust into pockets in readiness to use their wands. Ron's blue eyes found the ancient clock ticking peacefully away over the mantle. 9:53.

Praying that he would see the red-and-gold room again, he stepped out of Gryffindor Tower and started for the seventh floor.

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'All clear?' Ron whispered, sidling up to his sister, who was stationed directly behind a large suit of armour that afforded a perfect view of the hallway and the stretch of deceivingly blank wall that held the entrance to the Room of Requirement.

'Perfectly. No sign of him.' Her brother swiftly scanned the Map, blue eyes hardening until they more closely resembled shards of mountain ice than the warm summer sky.

'He's not on here – so he must be in there already. Here…' he was pulling a tiny bottle from his robes. It was two-thirds full of a golden liquid that generated its own light, casting golden sparkles on the stone under their feet.

'Is that—?' Ginny breathed. She had only seen it once.

'Yes. Harry gave us the last of his bottle. He…he told us to tell you goodbye for him.'

Fury flared in her brown eyes as she recoiled, glowering at her older sibling. 'You…you…_prat!' _she hissed viciously.

'Gin—' Ron started, a pained expression on his face.

'I _wondered _why he wasn't in the common room with us, but I thought…You let him go without allowing me to say goodbye to him!'

'Look, he was in a hurry, Dumbledore was waiting, he had to get out—'

'I went to bed _fifteen_ _minutes_ before you called us back down!' she snapped. 'It wouldn't have—'

'Gin, take a swallow.' The commanding tone in the tall wizard's voice interrupted her rising rage, and brooked no argument. 'Have a little more than half. The rest is for me. Harry says a small mouthful will last us a few hours – it should be long enough for him and Dumbledore to get back.'

Still glaring mutinously, Ginny grabbed the bottle from her brother's hand and took a sip. A part of her wanted to continue storming at her boyfriend's hapless sidekick – but she mastered the urge. It wasn't entirely out-of-character for the boy she had loved since the age of eleven to disappear on her. After Christmas, he had been slowly growing more open to her support instead of shuttering himself away and insisting that he leave her alone 'for her own safety'. But sometimes, when she caught his eye, she could see the deeply troubled look comprised of fear and longing, and knew that a part of him could still see – would always see – the spectre of Tom Riddle hovering over her lifeless body.

She had left slightly more than half of the Felix, and by the cocked eyebrow on her brother's face as he tilted the rim to his own lips, he knew she had. He downed it silently.

Ron remembered the lightness of Harry's expression – was it only a few months ago? How had the time stretched to feel like years between his best friend's foray to discover what Horcruxes were? – when he had taken Felix. But even as the golden liquid slid down his throat, dripping into a warm pool in his stomach, the giddy pleasure that had suffused Harry did not arrive.

There was, instead, a firm sort of certitude. The quiet, utter confidence that as long as he followed the potion's instructions, everyone he loved, everyone he cared about, would be all right over the coming hours.

'Me, you and Hermione have all had some,' he told Ginny softly. 'We're the only ones who're protected.' Her eyes reflected flame from the torches, lending the brown an orange sheen as she nodded, understanding his meaning. If there were to be fights, better for those with the luck to take centre stage, protecting those without.

'Lavender and Neville?' he breathed as silence settled once more in the wake of the youngest Weasley's near-explosion.

'Lavender's in the classroom at the end of the hall. Neville's behind that tapestry.' The end of her wand traced the air between their two invisible allies. Ron nodded curtly, wiped the Map, rolled it up and strode into plain view, planting himself next to where the door to the Room of Requirement would emerge.

A Disillusionment Charm later, he had vanished, and the hall looked deserted.

888

Hermione and Luna rounded the corner at a fast walk, headed directly towards Snape's office. Beyond the heavy oak door and the layers of personal wards fortified by water and air, his mind was alert and restless. He, too, was awaiting a signal.

The fleeting wish to go through that door herself, to tell him, to have one more minute lived in the private world they had built, was buried the moment it presented itself at the forefront of her mind. They had already taken those minutes, had stored them up into hours and days that would see them through the coming months. To enter his office now, in full view of a Ravenclaw who, while off-kilter, was certainly intelligent and observant, would undermine a year's subterfuge.

Having no wish to exacerbate her already-protesting back, the Gryffindor witch transfigured her cloak into a rough bench for their vigil. She and Luna sat down, side-by-side, speaking no words and needing none. A peculiar understanding seemed to have settled between them – between all of Dumbledore's Army that had arrived tonight. They were defending the school that had for six years, more or less, sheltered them. The need for such defence was a cataclysmic shift that meant their world would never be the same.

At the end of the hall, a clock sounded.

It wouldn't be long now.

888

Ron felt his whole body tense as the heavy door swung open soundlessly on well-oiled hinges. Strands of platinum-blond hair emerged from Draco Malfoy's incarnation of the Room of Requirement – a room Harry had spent months attempting to break through, to no avail. Malfoy's head was followed by an arm clutching a familiar, shrivelled hand in his pale fingers.

The red-head silently slid his wand out of the forearm sheath he had taken to wearing in the past months. He raised it, rolling onto the balls of his feet in a dueller's stance, the Felix Felicis telling him to wait, to be ready to stun the Slytherin as soon as he betrayed himself—

—another head, this one dark and shaggy, following the familiar gait of Ron's long-time rival, and then another, crowned by dirty blond locks and set over massive shoulders.

'Dumbledore's out, then?' the most recent sneered to the man in front of him.

The answer came as a sniggered reply, 'Out. Completely unaware that he has Death Eaters in his precious school.'

The Gryffindor felt as if the blood in his veins had been replaced by ice, lucky potion or not. Death Eaters? In the _school_? He spared a wordless apology to his best friend for doubting Harry's suspicions the whole year, and shook himself. There was no time to waste now on regrets. He would tell Harry when they saw each other again. The copper-haired Keeper did not allow the thought that they might have said goodbye for the last time in Gryffindor tower to assert itself as he raised his wand, aiming for the back of the big one…

'Someone's here!' shrieked the next Death Eater, obviously female, as she barged through the door. The point of his wand jerked with the force of his surprise, the light that jetted from the end ratcheted from the stone; Malfoy spun, a peculiar combination of a split-second's relief erased by searing fury on his thin features; he threw out his hand, sprinkling what looked like bullets of black snow over the corridor—

—and the world went pitch-black.

For an instant, Ron was certain he'd been hit with curse-induced blindness. Ginny's panicked cry and the next spell – one he heard as it struck a suit of armour, but could not see in the dark – dismissed that thought.

'Ron!'

'Bloody hell! There's a load of them!' bellowed a Death Eater in the darkness.

'Just take my hand – I'll guide us out!' Malfoy's hated voice shouted.

Neville's bellow came from the end of the corridor and another rebounded jinx shattered the wall behind Ron, raining chips of stone over his head and shoulders. He felt one bite at the juncture of his neck and his shoulders, and winced.

'Hold your fire!' he roared.

A cackle, and a streak of brilliant light blazed by him, centimetres from his skin, bright enough to be seen even in the opaque air.

'That's right, blood-traitor,' sang an unknown voice. '_Hold your fire_,' she mimicked, and though it was not Bellatrix Lestrange, there was something of insanity about the tone. 'Don't want to hit your precious friends-' the sound of another curse leaving a wand punctuated her taunts, '-now, do we?'

'Come _on_!' Malfoy shouted, and Ron was grimly pleased to hear a note of urgency and almost-fear in the once-arrogant tones of his boyhood enemy. 'We have a job to do!'

'Spread a little mayhem, boy,' growled a voice that sent shivers of horror rippling down Ron's spine. 'Give the Mudbloods and blood-traitors something to worry about. We can show you how it's done.' It was a voice that belonged to nightmares, to the wild fears of small children and the monsters that hid in their closets and under their beds. A tone that sinister had no right to leave the world of imagination and enter reality.

'_No_,' Malfoy declared emphatically, though Ron heard his smooth voice tremble slightly on the denial. 'We have to get up to the tower.'

'Good luck with that,' Ginny said coldly, returning taunt for taunt somewhere to her brother's left, across the hall. A hex seared a hole in the door at her back, smoke wafting along the corridor as she danced fluidly over the floor. 'You aren't the only one with friends, Malfoy.'

_The Order,_ Ron thought desperately. _We have to get the Order…we have to get out of here…_ They could hear Malfoy's Death Eaters moving in the dark, the whisper of their cloaks mingling with their rhythmic foot falls.

Somehow, the Slytherin wizard had a way of leading them out…

Felix made itself known again, niggling at his brain, prompting the memory of Malfoy's long fingers, splayed in a violent rush of motion as a powder fell from them, and darkness blossomed…

Powder. Darkness. _Peruvian Darkness Powder_. A wave of fury scalded Fred and George's youngest brother, and Ron felt for a single, terrible instant that he was channelling their mum's raw rage. The i_twins/i _had sold Malfoy the product that was now allowing Voldemort's followers to creep into Hogwarts detected – but unchallenged.

Felix introduced the memory of a brilliant orange box, the word _**Instructions**_ in bold on the back. Without the potion, Ron knew he'd never have recalled one product amongst the many others that had claimed his attention in Weasley's Wizard Wheezes last autumn. But as it was, he could remember the label as clearly as if he were staring at it now.

The radius of the powder's usefulness was narrow – only fifty feet or so. If they backed away from the steps of the Death Eaters, they would come out in the dimly-lit corridor on the other side…and that would give them the chance to find McGonagall and warn her what was happening…

He felt Ginny fall in beside him as he slowly started stepping backwards, and wondered if she was obeying her own dose of the draught.

Pitch-black faded to muggy grey, but the opacity of the magical sight-deprivation did not fade until they had reached the stairs. Their primary sense returned to them in a gratifying rush as they moved beyond the range of the powder. The siblings glanced back to see the swamp of murky darkness still coalescing in the hall before meeting one another's eyes, determined blue locked on ice-cold brown.

'Find McGonagall,' Ron ordered his sister in a clipped voice. 'Warn her.' She gave him a grim nod of obedience and sprinted forward, vanishing down the stairs in search of their Head of House.

The tall Gryffindor started down another hallway, his lanky legs eating ground with increasing desperation as he replayed Malfoy's conversation in his head.

'_We have to get up to the tower.'_ Felix told him that his dormitory tower was not the target. They were headed for the castle's tallest point – the Astronomy Tower.

He took a flight of stairs three at a time, launched himself to another staircase as it groaned and creaked with the effort of beginning its swing, and as he whipped around a bannister, he began to run in earnest.

McGonagall could call the Order. He had to lay as many traps as possible between the Death Eaters and their intended target.

888

Skidding around the turn of corridor that ended in McGonagall's office, Ginny found herself slammed face-to-chest with thread-bare robes. She rebounded, staggering backwards, and felt warm, friendly-if-firm fingers gripping her biceps.

'Ginevra?'

She knew that voice. Trusted that voice. Blinking to clear her vision and steadfastly ignoring the blossoming pain in her forehead from where it had struck the sharp angle of a collarbone, she found herself gazing into the worried hazel eyes of her one-time Defence professor.

'Lupin!'

'Ginevra! What are you doing out of bed? It's nearly midnight—'

'Death Eaters,' she cut him off ruthlessly. Time was of the essence, and the last thing they needed were a jumble of questions no one could answer. After they had rid Hogwarts of Voldemort's infestation there would be time to learn, time to understand…but not now. Not yet.

'What—?' He was staring at her, slack-jawed.

'Malfoy got Death Eaters in through the Room of Requirement. They're going to the Astronomy Tower. There didn't seem to be many – maybe six, or eight—'

Confusion in his eyes had been replaced by a dark fury so palpable Ginny winced as it jolted her through Lupin's tightening hands where they still clutched her arms. 'Albus did say—' He released her abruptly, as if only just realizing he was still holding her. 'Go back to Gryffindor,' he ordered curtly, striding back the way she'd come.

'No.' Her voice was quiet, but resolute. 'Dumbledore's Army was called, Professor. They've already started the fight. And it's my job to get Professor McGonagall.'

For a moment, she could see the twisting expression of pain, and pride, and fear, on his face that reminded her so of her father. It was clear he wanted to argue, that words like '_…safety first…' _and _'…too young for such dangers…' _and _'…let the adults handle this…_' had pushed to the forefront of his tongue.

But he did not waste his breath in protest. The drumming of her heart was loud in her ears, a tattoo beating away the moments of those already embroiled on the floor above them. Perhaps Lupin heard it too, for he favoured her with a final, piercing look, and dashed for the Tower, his wolf Patronus bursting forth in four streams of air-whipped silver to deliver their desperate message to members of the Order.

The sound of glass shattering preceded a thump, followed by a thin echo of deranged laughter overhead.

Ginny tore for the end of the corridor, and, without knocking, threw open the door and charged into Minerva McGonagall's office.

When she burst in, the Transfiguration professor rose from her chair without waiting for an explanation. At another time, Ginny would wonder why her professor was still in her office, fully dressed, at nearly midnight. Now, there was time for nothing but the mission she'd come on.

'Death Eaters—' the younger witch panted, her frantic dash through the castle a strain on even her Quidditch-fit body.

_Malfoy_. They had known it was coming. Knew it was tonight. But to not know what, or how…the older Gryffindor skipped shock and went straight to rage. Rage at Dumbledore's complacency regarding Malfoy's task, rage at Snape for not finding out, and rage at herself for trusting them both. Those murderous brigands were in _Hogwarts._ If her husband's was the only death tonight, they could count themselves insanely lucky.

'Thank you for telling me. Back to bed, Miss Weasley,' she dismissed her student curtly as she strode from the room.

The loping footfalls next to her told her that the fifth-year was going to disobey. She whirled on the girl, pulling out her most intimidating professorial scowl, only to meet the determined, blazing gaze on Ginny's face.

Screams, shouts, curses and the explosions of spells firing and misfiring burst from the floor above them. The Head of Gryffindor looked down at her student and found her glower missing. The din of battle above them came from her students, her children, fighting against the Dark.

Her wand also sprouted silver, mist that landed on the floor in the form of a tabby-cat. 'Wake Filius. Have him summon Severus,' she ordered her Patronus tersely. The cat disappeared with none of the languidness of its living counterparts.

'Miss Weasley. Come with me.'

Pivoting on her heel once more, McGonagall stretched out her wand as she began to run, her heels marking time with Ginny's. Light flared from her wand tip to wrap them in dense layers of magic as she constructed enchantments around them, imbuing the air they sped through with protections of her own design.

888

The dungeons were preternaturally quiet.

Hermione's fingers slipped inside her robe, turning the modified DA Galleon over and over, running her fingers along the raised, gilded edges of the words Zabini had sent nearly an hour before. Malfoy's task – ironic, really, that though they had known about the pale-faced Slytherin's appointed job for months, they had never managed to discover his method – must be under way by now, but the silence underground was as complete as a gathering of Death Eaters listening to Voldemort.

Ron had taken the map to coordinate strategy, leaving them blind as well as deaf, and Hermione felt a slowly-rising tide of panic threaten to engulf her. All their planning. All their efforts. And now…now that it was here, and Malfoy had finally accomplished some part of his appointed duties…who would make sure it was executed as intended? What if one of the Dumbledore's Army got in the way? What if Ron did? Or Ginny? Anything could be happening upstairs…

Luna abruptly straightened next to her, startling the Gryffindor witch out of her increasingly morbid musings. 'Professor Flitwick's coming,' she announced.

Hermione could, indeed, hear the beat of boots on the granite – she had opened her mouth to ask the Ravenclaw now surging to her feet next to her how she knew it was Flitwick – when their tiny teacher flew around the corner, his destination the office they were stationed right outside.

He blazed past them, so intent on his goal that he barely registered their presence, though they were wearing neither the Invisibility Cloak nor Disillusionment Charms.

'Professor—?' Luna started to ask, stepping forward. The sound of her voice married to her hesitant movement seemed to jerk an internal brake in the half-goblin, and he skidded as he reached the door to his colleague's office, panting.

'Death Eaters…in castle…upstairs…how they got in…no idea…must find…Severus…' and then he was shoving through the door as if the wards meant nothing – which was true, they were almost entirely protections against unwanted entry by students – and disappearing into the office.

Luna's peculiar silver eyes met Hermione's wide, chocolate ones in rebounding reflections of genuine shock.

'Death Eaters?' the Ravenclaw whispered, and the horror in her voice made her sound real and solid – nothing like the girl who so often quoted the bizarre magazine her father edited.

'In _Hogwarts_?' Nausea swept over Hermione, and she bent double, fighting to stay on her feet as she cursed all of them for six different kinds of fools. Death Eaters. In the castle. It wasn't just Dumbledore's life they were gambling – as it truly hadn't been all along. Malfoy had brought back-up, not knowing that the headmaster himself had sealed his fate months ago, using her bondmate, his loyal servant, to spare the teenager the heartbreak of murder.

The same murderers that had hunted them through the Ministry of Magic were _here_, where there were no Aurors to come to the rescue, only a handful of students, mockingly christened _Dumbledore's Army_, to stand in their way…

Or had this been the plan all along? Was Dumbledore's death no more than icing on the Dark Lord's proverbial cake? Was the importance of Malfoy's task the fact that Death Eaters had succeeded in gaining entry to Britain's securest place?

She was barely aware of forcing herself back into a standing position when the oak door slammed against the stone again, and that which resembled nothing so much as a long, black tornado came whirling through.

Unlike Flitwick, Severus Snape stopped to glower down at the witches standing in the hallway. 'Miss Lovegood. Miss Granger. Whatever it is that you're doing down here at this hideous hour, your detentions for breaking curfew will have to wait. There are Death Eaters in the school. Professor Flitwick has fainted in my office. Attend to him.'

Luna gasped and started for the office immediately, her blond locks vanishing around the door.

The instant the last flicker of her cloak's tail disappeared into the office that had been his for more than a decade and a half; Snape brought his onyx gaze to lock on the worried eyes of his bondmate.

Hermione felt herself stepping towards him, almost against her will, as if mesmerized. Some part of her knew that she needed to follow Luna. The part of her brain that made homework schedules and ticked off the meticulous seconds for planning was making furious demands regarding her immediate departure, moaning over her unruly emotions that threatened not only herself and her bondmate, but the whole of the wizarding world.

And still, her right foot found a place in front of her left, bringing her within touching distance for the first time in a week.

His eyes never left hers, tension spinning between them like the gossamer threads of a spider's silk, woven to bind without being seen.

'No matter what happens,' he whispered, and thin lips found a place on her forehead, 'no matter what you hear, or even what you will see, remember.' His fingertips brushed her cheekbones to graze the shell of her ear, 'I would never betray him,' long hands slid gracefully down her neck, flowing over her thickening waist, 'or you,' they came to rest on her belly, on the six-month twins they could feel growing there, kicking in acknowledgement of their father's nearness, 'or them.'

The gentle brush of his mouth over her fuller lips, the spark of wind, fire, water and earth surging from witch to wizard, and he was striding away, the consummate Death Eater, the cruel professor she had met at eleven years of age. The man she loved. A man about to become as reviled as the Dark Lord he pretended to serve. Hermione realized she was trembling as he receded from view in the school corridor for the very last time.

She steadied her limbs, controlling them with the iron will Harry and Ron had come to both respect and fear, and turned on her heel to assist Luna.

888

The Peruvian Darkness Powder only got the Death Eaters around the end of the corridor before it dissipated, lightening into grey before vanishing. Dumbledore's Army had pulled a full retreat from the impenetrable blackness, but whatever Malfoy had used as a guidance system had done its work. Neville saw the tail-end of a heavy black robe whipping around a corner – and then the jet of red light that ratcheted off the stone, spraying splinters of granite along the corridor.

Cold laughter echoed from the hallway in front of them, not-quite-masking the sudden sound of boots grinding to a halt, or the violent flashes of light that betrayed duelling wands. 'So sweet,' a woman's voice simpered at them, 'prepared to defend their little school like this.'

Neville gestured Lavender to maintain her silence as they snuck up behind their quarry, biting back a sigh of relief. Wherever Ron and Ginny had gone, the second line had engaged the enemy.

'_Stupefy!'_

'_Protego!'_

'_Crucio!'_ Screams rebounded, only to be cut off by a horrified—

'_Impedimentia!'_

Orange and green, yellow and blue, red and purple flashed furiously as the two sixth years closed on the Dark Lord's followers. A grim satisfaction lent Neville strength. It seemed that Malfoy was out of powder – and they were going to have to fight their way through.

'Come pretty one, surrender. It would be such a shame to mar that beautiful face – arggh!'

'_Confringo!'_ Heat seared as robes caught fire, casting shifting silhouettes on the end wall. 'Keep your pervert hands off my sister!' snarled one of the Patils.

'Feisty one, eh? If you want to play like that,' another low voice snarled, _'Sectumsempera!'_

_Harry's curse_, Neville barely had time to register, and then they were pelting around the corner, a squat Death Eater's back directly in front of him.

The dread that had settled at the bottom of his stomach since Ron had called them earlier disappeared, leaving him both oddly empty and full of a single, terrible purpose. Weakness vanished, as did fear, and there was only the crystal clarity of the task before him.

His wand steady from three battles in the past year, he started casting.

'_Incarcerous!'_

888

Water and wind flailed about him, physical manifestations of the emotions that could not play across his face, the reactions he had locked into a room at the back of his mind and bottom of his heart, leaving him empty of feeling, empty of care.

His extra-sensory sensitivity to magic betrayed his fellows long before Flitwick had stumbled through his door. The school's wards, long ago altered by the soon-to-be-late-headmaster to warn against the Dark Lord's followers, had adjusted the instant another Dark Mark had been added to the premises. And then another. And another.

Ether pushed him, helping him move so quickly he was almost gliding as he hit the main entry hall and turned upwards.

_Hurry, Albus_, he found himself urging the man back from his errand.

His left arm throbbed. There were now ten people on the grounds wearing the Mark. Eight were killers without conscience. Against a school of a thousand children, eight was more than enough.

888

Ron heard the roar as it shook the floor beneath him, and he slid to a halt at the base of the stairs that would lead him to the Astronomy Tower. So far, the corridor was dark and still, belying the furious struggle going on now two floors below.

His brain kicked into over-drive, providing vivid horror images of Ginny, lying white-faced against the stone floor, and then of Lavender, her beautiful hair wet with blood—

He shook himself furiously, and the Felix in his blood wrestled the fearful part of his psyche into submission as he started for the stairwell leading down. They would be all right. Ginny had taken Felix as well, and he _knew_, with the peculiar foreknowledge granted by the potion, that no one would die in the lower corridor right now.

Pausing at the stairs, he began to weave the most complicated defensive snares and booby-traps he knew over the entrance.

888

The wards were buckling under the weight of the violent spells rending great holes in the castle, and the magic's attempt to incorporate the complex defences being thrown up. Wind recognized the Gryffindor Keeper through Snape's access to the wards, and his lips twitched with the cold comfort of satisfaction. His bondmate had, indeed, managed to impart some of their study to her friends.

He leapt off a staircase as it started to shift away, clearing the last three feet with the help of his Elemental connection. He could now hear the fighting just ahead of him, and feel the caustic backwash of ducked curses.

Dumbledore hadn't yet triggered the wards. They were running out of time…

Snape Disillusioned himself. He could not be seen to enter the fray.

888

'We're almost there!' Malfoy shouted, his Shield Charm flickering under the attack of the Gryffindor guard, which had successfully kept all the intruders engaged as they continued to fall back, the black tide striding inexorably forward.

'_Incendio!'_ Seamus' pyjama-bottoms caught fire.

'_Aguamenti!'_ Colin Creevey put them out.

'_Reducto!'_ Heads snapped up as stone collapsed in from the ceiling, burying one of the Death Eaters. The Gryffindors readily recognized their Head of House, her wand extended in front of her like a sword as she slashed furiously at the next attacker.

Neville and Lavender stood back-to-back, surrounded by four Death Eaters, with both Nymphadora Tonks and Remus Lupin casting spells on the outside of the ring as fast as their wands could move.

Bill Weasley had one arm firmly around a cursed Dean Thomas, duelling with the squat woman who had come through the Room of Requirement as Parvati crouched behind them, furiously testing counter-curses on her classmate and defended from the back by Dennis Creevey.

Snape sidled into the battle, carefully deflecting a hex that within a shadow's breath of hitting Longbottom, using Ether to swallow the Entrail-Expelling Curse cast at McGonagall.

There was one more corridor to go, and one more narrow staircase, and they would be at the base of the Tower…

888

Ron reeled as he heard clattering on the stairs behind him – those leading up to the Tower Malfoy was so keen to get to. A black cloak was hurrying towards him in the corridor.

'_Protego,'_ he whispered. He had been improving his non-verbal spell casting all year, but didn't yet trust it in a fight.

'Who's there?' growled a voice that was both menacing and nervous.

And not one Ron recognized. Wondering how the enemy had gotten behind them, and if there were more coming from that direction, he waved his wand to cast his sister's variation of the Bat-Bogey Hex.

888

They had fought their way up the stairs. Weasley's booby traps had ensnared two of his fellows before the Carrow siblings tore through them to reach the pair already locked in combat, Weasley holding his own against a broad-shouldered man Snape recognized as the stupid-and-brutal Gibbon.

A strangled cry shot along the corridor as Lupin was thrown sideways, his head hitting a sconce. Snape ducked, spinning to see Tonks advancing, her normally pink cheeks white with fury, her eyes red with fear.

'_Expulso!' _the Auror screamed at Alecto, sizzling orange magic blasting from the tip of her wand. The Defence Professor sucked in an unseen breath as Alecto parried, the vicious spell spluttering out against her shield.

But then, she loved him, as her Patronus had betrayed at the beginning of the year. Unbidden, his mind substituted Lupin's rapidly-greying head lying against the stone for the impossible, bushy mess of his bondmate—

He shoved that thought away as it brought his blood to boiling, and wind whipped through the hall in response, providing a momentary distraction.

'_Confundo!'_ Snape whispered, his wand pointed at Turpin's back as the big Death Eater bore down on Tonks, who had eyes only for Alecto.

Turpin halted in his tracks, shaking his head muzzily, but he raised his wand nevertheless. _'Avada Kedavra!'_

The jet of green light bolted through the now-smoky corridor, illuminating individual eddies of violence…to find its home in the breast of Gibbon, who collapsed from where he was fighting Weasley like a puppet whose strings were severed.

Before he could be relieved that the spell had worked well enough to spare his student, Hogwarts' wards shifted again, and he was close enough to see McGonagall's dark blue eyes widen as she recognized the tells spelled into the school's defence system.

Dumbledore was back.

888

Later, Snape would never be able to tell whether they all, somehow, sensed the return of the headmaster, or whether Fate had stepped in with spectacular timing.

He unmasked himself in the middle of the corridor just as Fenrir Greyback launched himself at Bill Weasley, carrying the Cursebreaker to the floor in a rolling maul of teeth, wands, and nails. Screams of distress rose from both Ron and Ginny as they rushed forward, murder in their eyes. Malfoy seized the momentary distraction, slashed Lavender Brown and Colin aside and raced through the doorway.

Whatever spell Gibbon had placed over the entrance to the Tower, it was impenetrable to anyone without a Dark Mark. Neville Longbottom attempted to follow the Slytherin through, and was thrown backwards. Snape's wand flicked up almost automatically to soften the stone wherever the boy landed.

Lupin was back on his feet and snarling almost as fiercely as Greyback as he and Tonks re-engaged their opponents.

Jinxes, curses and their counters criss-crossed the hall. Reaching the end was taking too long…

Greyback, apparently pleased with the job he had done on Bill, was the next to follow Malfoy through the barrier and onto the roof. Then the Carrows.

Snape began to battle forward in earnest. The mere thought _Deprimo_ crossed his mind, and he found his wind element spiralling forward to obey his intent, interrupting deadly duels and slamming those of both sides against the walls of corridor. As he began to run in the wake of his own magic, Ether caught the neck of a suit of armour and brought the ancient garb crashing to the ground, helmet rolling separately in a grotesque parody of a beheading.

He passed through the barrier as if it were no more than air, and the sudden sharpness of the night here, without the smoke of the battle, was a tangible reminder of Gibbon's last act.

The dark wizard sprinted up the stairs, taking them three at a time. He knew Malfoy was incapable of deliberately committing face-to-face murder. A cursed necklace, some poisoned mead, a little torture…these were all well within the purview of Lucius Malfoy's son and heir.

But real murder, when he had to look into the eyes of the one about to die…

'_His soul…_' Snape could still hear Dumbledore saying, blue eyes solemn and firm, binding Snape to obedience.

But neither the Carrows nor Greyback would have any such compunction. And they could not be allowed to kill him.

888

'Draco, do it or stand aside so one of us—'

He could hear Alecto's voice screeching, and felt one fleeting instant of disappointment so severe it was almost crippling. For a moment, he wished that Lucius' son had proven as heartless as his father, that the boy had found it in him to complete the cycle Dumbledore had set in motion and spare Snape, himself, the need…

Furiously repressing the traitorous part of himself that never ceased longing for that which would not be, the long-reviled Potions master and Defence professor threw back the door to the ramparts, relishing the sound of the door slamming violently against the stone.

He swiftly surveyed the scene. Four Death Eaters, and Malfoy himself, pale and shaking, his wand drooping as he stared into the rapidly-dimming blue eyes of the failing headmaster. His eyes passed quickly over the failing form of his employer, his friend, his father, the most powerful wizard in the world, gripping the crenulation to keep himself standing.

_Potter?_ He wondered. But Potter wasn't here…or at least, wasn't visible…

'We've got a problem, Snape,' Amycus was growling next to him, thick, blunt wand pointed directly at Dumbledore. 'The boy doesn't seem able—'

'Severus…'

He nearly closed his eyes to shut out that voice. To silence what it meant. Even in his weakness, Dumbledore could see Snape's resolve cracking, fading, failing.

He forced himself forward. One step at a time. The way he had beaten his harsh path out of the Dark was now the same road he would walk back into its treacherous arms.

A shoulder was in his way. He grasped it, felt the thinness of his student's body under the robes that hid a multitude of sins. Like a man possessed, he shoved Malfoy aside, not sparing a glance when the blond stumbled and collapsed on the stone.

'Severus…please…'

He dove back, through years of memories, years of becoming the man he could be, seeking the boy he had been, the boy who had joined a Dark Lord and dreamed of holding the chance he held right now. He sought the child who needed revenge, the righteous fury that had flared to soul-rending life when Remus Lupin had nearly killed him in a tunnel under the Shrieking Shack and the boy who had lured him there _laughed _at the thought…and he found the remembrance of the man who had turned a blind eye to what should have been a student's death, and forbidden the victim to speak out…

Eyes the shade and warmth of arctic water at midnight focused again, the teenager brim-full of unleashed rage summoned to stand in place of the adult, and the words left his lips almost easily:

'_Avada Kedavra!'_

888

Kneeling over Flitwick's passed-out form, Hermione felt Darkness well within her, vibrant and poisonous and hissing, turning her stomach and making her nauseous.

'Hermione?' Luna asked. He voice sounded oddly distant, and Hermione found herself on all fours, her palms flat against the floor as she instinctively sought the protection of the earth.

'I'm all right,' the Gryffindor witch gasped, though she made no move to rise. Her arms were trembling as if she'd just done fifty push-ups in a row, and she was quite certain that if she moved so much as a single muscle, she would be violently ill—

Abruptly, the taint faded, and there was sorrow, so forceful it was blinding, and water gushed from her eyes as she gagged on her sobs, only vaguely aware of Luna's gentle hands rubbing in circles on her back.

He had done it. Many floors above them, unbeknownst to any of the sleeping students in between, their headmaster had died.

At her bondmate's hand.

_Animus Delego,_ she felt the faint echo of an unfamiliar spell from her Snape's shaken mind. Then there was a quiet sensation of fulfilment that rose to combat her horror, a gentle affirmation and detached, tacit acknowledgement of approval, of completion, and, most strangely…of triumph.

A year's worth of unknown, unexpressed emotion avalanched on her all at once. Deaf to Luna's disquiet, Hermione Granger curled in on herself and fainted.

8888888888

A/N: And that's that. As usual, anything you recognize was written by the wonderful woman who gave us this universe to play with. This chapter contains a few lines from pages 595-596 of HBP, British edition. This and the next chapter mark the end of my adherence to canon. There may be some features of the coming chapters that borrow from _Deathly Hallows_, but those are likely to be few. For one, the Hallows themselves are not going to be a part of this story. Thank you for reading and please let me know what you think!

The spells I used for the battles were gleaned from the oh-so-helpful list of Harry Potter spells, curses, jinxes and hexes on Wikipedia.

_Animus Delego_ is the Latin translation for "soul / spirit transfer". What that means for our brave anti-Voldemort league will become apparent as time goes on…


	15. Preparation and Surprises

Disclaimer: Not mine, all the characters and the world belong to our dear Ms Rowling.

A/N: As usual, my apologies for long waits…at some point, I hope this line is no longer necessary at the beginning of my chapters. However, I thank each and every one of you for reading, and I very much hope you enjoy this next instalment!

Preparations and Surprises

_June, 1998_

Low voices rumbled from the dining room as Harry, flanked by Hermione and Ron, strode through the door.

The show of unity from the long-famous trio brought double-takes from the Order members assembled, and more than a few quick smiles. Alastor Moody met Hermione's gaze coldly, and she returned it in kind. Her relationship with Snape would never be acceptable to the old Auror, but she was certain he would not challenge her presence.

Not with strangers in the room.

'Hermione!' There was a touch too much surprise in Lupin's voice, which he hastened to cover as he stepped forward to clasp her hands. 'Thank you for diverting your attention from your projects to join us today.'

'Didn't think I'd do it, Remus?' Harry quietly asked his mentor with a crooked grin. Lupin returned the smile, reaching out and slightly up to clap both young men on the shoulder.

'Harry, Ron, Hermione,' his voice was louder now, and more formal; 'can I present Madam Silver and Mr Canus?' The two unfamiliar faces at the table rose rather stiffly. Their patch-worked robes, while clean, reminded the three friends forcefully of the way Lupin had looked when he had arrived at Hogwarts as their professor.

'You're the werewolf delegation.' Harry moved forward, reaching out first to greet the aged woman, then the younger man standing at her side. His clean, but unadorned, dark green robes had been Remus' careful choice. He was dressed as a wizard to acknowledge their equal rights as wizards, the cut of his robes respectful without being ostentatious. Hermione and Ron, dressed in equally sombre robes of deep purple and navy blue respectively, followed Harry's lead in greeting Silver and Canus.

'You are very young,' Madam Silver observed, and her voice was rough like sandpaper as she gazed into each face. 'But then, Albus Dumbledore was ever fond of encouraging the young to shoulder his risks.'

Harry's face heated and Hermione could see Ron visibly biting his lip, striving for the diplomacy that had proven so important to building their army against Voldemort. But the witch merely smiled fleetingly. Dumbledore had done his best, but there was no denying Madam Silver had a point.

'She knows,' the grey-haired woman nodded to the young woman, and she seemed approving. Hermione dipped her head.

'We could, doubtlessly, use your wisdom, Madam, if you see fit to lend it to us.'

Silver laughed now, a sharp sound that echoed like a bark in the room. 'And she's a clever flatterer. But then, Remus warned us you would be.'

They took their seats at the table once again as McGonagall entered from the kitchen with tea and several plates of biscuits. Like Harry's robes, her deliberate service to the werewolves was a gesture of goodwill and a promise of the future they were striving to create.

'I know that the young generally favour directness,' Silver began after taking a long, savouring sip of her tea. 'So I will be blunt. You wish us to join you to fight against the Dark Lord. He has made many promises to our kind, and kept a goodly number of them. He also has the added terror of Fenrir Greyback – who is more than enough threat for most of us to keep our distance from either side.' She looked directly at Harry, then let her brown-and-green eyes travel to each member of the Order, making contact with each. Coached by Remus, they all unblinkingly met her gaze, neither backing down nor challenging her.

'What are you offering, Harry Potter and Minerva McGonagall? What is your Order going to give werewolves that the Dark Lord is not and the Ministry has not? What is _your_ vision of a brave, new world?'

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_June, 1997_

'…Dumbledore owes him, he can't leave him in this state—'

'Ron – Dumbledore's dead.'

'No!'

Ginny's whisper, followed by Remus Lupin's broken cry, snapped the voices muzzily floating around her into stark relief, and Hermione sat bolt upright, their one-time professor yanking her back to full consciousness with his distress.

Silence reigned in the infirmary. Hermione's eyes shot to Ron's, which were locked in horror on Harry, and then switched to Harry's jade green, glossed with tears behind dirt-smudged glasses.

'How did he die?' Tonks' voice was shaking so badly they nearly couldn't make out the words. 'How did it happen?'

'Snape killed him.' Harry's voice was loaded with exhaustion, grief, anger and guilt. 'I was there. I saw it.' Hermione felt her heart contract as he stumbled through telling the story she already knew. Malfoy hadn't been able to do it. Other Death Eaters had arrived. Then Snape…who had killed their dying headmaster at Dumbledore's own urging.

_It's not your fault_, she wished she could tell him. _Don't blame yourself for this, too. There was nothing you could have done, Harry._

Ginny, Lavender and Tonks were making no attempt to hide the tears dripping from their faces. Ron, Lupin and Neville wore identical harsh, cold masks that contained their sorrow and promised a bitter retribution.

Madam Pomfrey was studying the young witch seated on her hospital bed, eyes huge and luminous in her pale face. Hermione caught her eyes and swiftly looked away again, all-too-easily reading the pity and compassion there. She had built a cage around her feelings, carefully walling them off as she had learned to do so well over the past year. The concerned, affectionate and almost motherly gaze of the school's nurse threatened to undo them.

But as she allowed her eyes to roam, she found Luna looking directly at her. As the Gryffindor witch met the Ravenclaw's steady silver gaze, she felt a jolt of pure unease. Luna had been with her when Snape had whirled into the hall. She had seen Hermione collapse as Dumbledore was making his final plummet from the tower.

Luna's oddities – her air of dottiness that suddenly seemed as carefully cultivated as Dumbledore's 'genial old wizard' persona – kept many from noticing the observant young woman underneath. But the fifth year now studying Hermione was channeling the penetrative glance of their late headmaster at his worst, and the older girl shifted uncomfortably on her bed, arresting her hand before it could make the tell-tale travel to her belly and the glamour-disguised bump of her twins.

'Listen!' Ginny's gasp distracted them from their staring contest, and it was with a grateful ear that Hermione heard the swelling melody of phoenix song.

It sounded as if it filled not just the room, but the whole of world, dipping and soaring with sorrow. The music pervaded her, reverberating in her chest so intensely Hermione felt at once that she was the source of this magnificent sound, the soul of the grief it sang, and no more than an instrument the song used, reduced to her capacity to hear and understand and mourn with the beautiful bird.

Ron's face was relaxing, Neville's brow unknotting, and Lupin's eyes closed as his jaw unclenched. The women still wept, but the music was swallowing their first blaze of devastated hopelessness, transmuting their despairing fear into a simpler misery.

Harry stood alone in the middle of the infirmary with his head thrown back, a strange serenity washing over his features, and Hermione remembered abruptly that he was the only one who was familiar with Fawkes' glorious hymn.

Time seemed to stop as they stood there, allowing the swirling ballad to caress them, washing away their heartbreak as a river carries sand downstream.

The spell broke when the door to the infirmary opened again, admitting Professors McGonagall and Flitwick – the latter sporting a large bruise on the back of his skull – and the rest of the DA.

Many of them were bleeding profusely from small cuts and abrasions; others were already wearing makeshift splints and bandages. Madam Pomfrey dashed her remaining tears from her eyes with an impatient hand as she set about tending to her students-turned-soldiers.

McGonagall shared one swift, piercing glance with her best student from behind her square-rimmed glasses, before taking a deep breath and announcing, 'Molly and Arthur are on their way.' She focused grimly on Harry, and Hermione fancied she could almost see their strict teacher force her next words off her tongue. 'Harry, what happened? According to Hagrid, you were with Professor Dumbledore when he—' knowing it had been coming for months did nothing to ease to ache, and she couldn't form the words '—when it happened. He says Professor Snape was involved somehow—'

'Snape killed Dumbledore,' Harry told her in a flat, hard voice.

McGonagall's face drained of colour, her breath hitching in her throat she folded gracelessly into the chair Pomfrey conjured behind her. 'Minerva…' the nurse breathed, squeezing one of her colleague's hands.

'Snape. We all wondered…but he trusted…' _Above all others,_ Hermione thought grimly, recognizing McGonagall's need to dissemble and hating her for maligning her bondmate at the same time, 'always… _Snape_…I can't believe it…'

'Snape was a highly accomplished Occlumens,' Lupin all-but snarled. 'We always knew that.'

'But Dumbledore swore he was on our side! I always thought Dumbledore must know something about Snape that we didn't…' Tonks whispered.

McGonagall continued to play her role, stammering excuses, pulling out a tartan handkerchief to contain her all-too-real tears.

'I'd love to know what Snape told him to convince him,' Tonks interrupted coldly.

'I know,' Harry said heavily, and Hermione's eyes snapped to her friend, curiosity ignited. This was a question she had never asked him…why _had_ he turned away from the Dark Lord?

'Snape passed Voldemort the information that made Voldemort hunt down my mum and dad. Then Snape told Dumbledore he hadn't realized what he was doing, he was really sorry he'd done it, sorry that they were dead.'

The fragile fence wrapped around her emotions collapsed. Cold swept her from head to toe, drowning her, muffling Lupin's incredulous response and Harry's glower. She locked eyes with her Head of House, and saw McGonagall's equally shocked gaze fixed on her. It was clear that neither woman had known.

The numbness of disbelief was already settling an icy hard-heartedness in her chest. She knew what he was. She knew what he did. She had seen pieces of his ugly service to Voldemort when he had opened his mind to her…why should this come as such a blow?

But it did. The sins of his youth suddenly seemed thrown into stark relief, laid out for her perusal as they never had been before. Severus Snape, her bondmate and the father of her unborn children, a man she trusted completely and loved with abandon, had orphaned her best friend.

'_Snape was a highly accomplished Occlumens_.' They _had _always known that. She better than most.

Doubt avalanched on her. If he had caused the deaths of Harry's parents, who else had he killed – directly or indirectly – that she cared about by proxy?

'_No matter what happens, no matter what you hear, or even what you will see, remember. I would never betray him, or you, or them.'_

Suddenly, Hermione felt like nothing more than a frightened, seventeen-years-old and sixth-months-pregnant girl. She buried her face in her hands, and let her friends assume her tears were for the headmaster who had left them.

888

The members of the DA were patched up, those requiring bed rest providing anchors for the clumps of their less-injured peers clustered around them. The whole of the Weasley family – with the noticeable absence of their third son – was cluttered around Bill.

Except for a few whispers that rose quickly and petered out just as fast, Hogwarts' hospital wing was silent. They had all heard Harry's extraordinary story, and by unspoken, but common, consent, it seemed there was nothing to do now but let it sink in.

'Mr Potter. Miss Granger. Mr and Miss Weasley. Please come with me.'

All four heads snapped to the door where Minerva McGonagall was striding towards them, her eyes rimmed with red and steely with determination.

'Professor?' Harry rose immediately.

'What is it?' Ron asked, steering Ginny towards them from his brother's bedside.

'Albus' last will and testament,' she said quietly.

Her four students stared at her. After a night of nasty surprises, Hermione would have thought shock would be the very last thing any of them could feel, but disbelief was etched on all four faces. 'We're in it?' Harry ventured his guess. McGonagall raised both her eyebrows in a disturbingly accurate impression of her former colleague.

'Would I be requesting your presence, Potter, if you were not?' She seemed to notice the brittle cast to her tone, for her blue eyes softened behind her spectacles. 'Albus was very fond of you, Harry.' Her gaze lifted to the other three, 'and all of you – for the unwavering support you've shown him.' She turned away from them, tilting her raven head to indicate that they should follow. They obeyed in silence, Hermione and Ginny jogging slightly as their shorter legs competed with Ron and Harry's longer ones.

They stopped outside the Headmaster's Office as the gargoyle shuffled aside for their Deputy Headmistress, but maintained their silence until the spiral staircase had delivered them at the oaken door.

Upon entering, they found every single portrait wide awake and staring at them intently. Several winked surreptitiously or gave them small, encouraging waves. But most of them scowled – some at Harry, some at Hermione, the vast majority focused on McGonagall.

'Minerva, I must question yet again what I spent a second lifetime asking Albus: Do you think it wise to share so much with mere students?' Armando Dippet's portrait wheezed.

'Much as I hate to agree with a Hufflepuff, I must add my voice to his,' drawled Phineas Black in a superior tone. 'They are just children—'

'That will do,' McGonagall rapped out, sweeping a glare over the portraits protesting her decision. 'Or have you all – each of you a Headmaster or Headmistress of Hogwarts – forgotten the binding nature of a final will and testament? Albus Dumbledore named them beneficiaries of his estate. None of us have the right to interfere. Now. If you cannot be silent,' her wand slid smoothly from her sleeve to point directly at the paintings, who winced in turn as the tip glided over them, 'I will _make _you.'

They eyed her nervously, bright, oil-rendered eyes darting to the tip of her wand and back again. But they all fell silent.

'The Heads of House have already conferred,' McGonagall turned to her students' briskly, and though her voice was steady, Hermione saw the way she gripped her late husband's desk until her knuckles were white with strain. Playing a role no less scrupulously than Snape for many years was all that bolstered her now. 'We have determined to close the school.'

Ginny gasped, but Harry and Ron both nodded curtly, acknowledging that it was only to be expected. Hermione did not react at all – she knew it was out of character, but she was too tired to act, and amongst the night's overwhelming revelations, her lack of astonished protest would not be remembered.

'With Albus…Albus gone,' she cleared her throat, 'the professors have agreed that we have only a matter of weeks, two or three months at the most, before He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named manages to topple the Ministry. When he does, Hogwarts will come under his jurisdiction. Rather than allow that to occur, the school will be shut down after Professor Dumbledore's funeral. The castle is home to enchantments designed to barricade Hogwarts against intruders in extreme cases. Friday morning, we will trigger them for the protection of the castle and all the artefacts we have within.'

She removed one of her hands from the desk, and reached for a tightly-wound scroll tied neatly next to one of Dumbledore's many silver, spinning instruments. Picking it up, a wave of her hand indicated that they should go through a rather solid-looking set of bookcases.

Ron and Harry exchanged puzzled looks, but Hermione stepped forward without comment and tap-danced her wand across several tomes, until the hidden door swung open.

'How did you—?' Harry sounded both mildly curious and piqued. A frown creased between his eyebrows. He had always been obscurely pleased with his one-on-one direct access to their brilliant headmaster. The evidence that Hermione clearly knew something about the elderly wizard that he didn't chafed slightly.

'Occlumency, Harry,' she reminded him gently, accurately reading the flicker of emotion gracing his green eyes. If her best friend was a bit possessive of what he perceived to be his singular relationship with Dumbledore, who was she to blame him? Harry had had few enough adults to shower him with love throughout his life. The venom he had unleashed on Severus Snape and Draco Malfoy all year was proof that he still felt the loss of Sirius deeply.

'Ah, right.' His expression cleared rapidly, and Hermione shook her head as the four young witches and wizards stepped into the private sitting room with their professor.

'No portraits,' Ron commented, quickly scanning the walls. Hung with tapestries and Muggle art – many of them museum-quality – nothing moved with sentience here.

'Indeed, Mr Weasley. It is best that, for this conversation, the walls do _not _have ears. Please, take a seat.' Hermione and Harry took the wingback chairs flanking the couch, where the Weasley siblings quickly seated themselves, all on the edge of their seats, their eyes locked on their Head of House.

'Time is very short,' she continued in the swift, dry manner she had adopted since her tears in the hospital wing. 'The Minister will be arriving soon, and I assume you have as little desire to be interrogated about the events of tonight as I have to let him try. Harry, I know that Albus gave you a specific task: the destruction of Tom Riddle's Horcruxes.'

Harry, prepared to politely deny her questions about his mission, stopped mid-breath, green eyes wide as he quickly engaged in a non-verbal conversation with Ron, Hermione and Ginny, which ended with a very stiff, 'How do you know?' to their teacher.

'Because I was married to Albus Dumbledore for forty years,' she answered evenly. This announcement was punctuated with the startled exclamations that closing Hogwarts had not elicited, but she forestalled a full disclosure of her personal history with a raised hand. 'There will be time to discuss that later. Before the Minister arrives to interfere, we must attend to Albus' will. As you guessed in the hospital, Potter, each of you has been bequeathed a gift. Ginevra Weasley.' The youngest of the quad looked up, curious as to what their headmaster – whose only private conversation with her had centred on a soul-possessing, Horcrux-diary when she was twelve years old – might have left her.

'You have been gifted with the sword of Godric Gryffindor.' Ron emitted a low whistle as his sister grabbed his hand, shooting a questioning glance at Harry.

'Me, Professor? But I—'

'The sword is a magical object, Miss Weasley, one that has been wielded before in your defence. It remembers that fact. It is also impregnated with Basilisk venom – one of several rare substances known to be capable of destroying Horcruxes.'

Finished with that, she read the next. 'Ronald Weasley. Albus has left you with his Deluminator,' she produced the small, silver, cigarette-lighter-shaped object from her robes and handed it to him, 'and his Traveller's Foe Glass.' Another object followed the first, this one a round, highly-polished disc about the size of a Sickle and strung on a fine chain. Ron turned each over in his hands, long, callused fingers caressing the unexpected treasures from the headmaster's unique collection.

'Thank you,' he said hoarsely, blinking away the tears that had risen, sudden and unbidden, as he pocketed his heirlooms.

'Hermione Granger. You have been presented with the entire contents of his library regarding the Ang'guin Weyr, _Secrets of the Darkest Arts_ – which is the only definitive text on the subject of Horcruxes – _The Comprehensive Guide to Blood Magick: Use for Fair and Foul Play, _and _A Study of the Magical Nexi of the World_.' Hermione tilted her head in a nod, struggling to pay attention through the mantra that had worn grooves in her brain in the past hour: _Snape killed James and Lily, Snape killed James and Lily…_Wormtail never would have given them up if Snape hadn't set the Dark Lord on their tail…

'Harry Potter,' McGonagall continued after giving the listless young woman a long look, 'Albus has left you the key to his ancestral retreat here in Scotland.' She extended a bronze key to the baffled Chosen One, who took it a beat too late, examining its etched head with his fingertips. 'And his Pensieve – for when you should find your mind too muddied by confusion to think clearly.'

Harry bowed his head, thinking bitterly of the memories he had explored with his mentor that year. Memories that had led to nothing more than a hunt for the proverbial phantom Snitch and the great wizard's death. If he never saw another Pensieve it would be too soon.

But he forced himself to nod and approximate an expression of gratitude, though his throat was too tight to attempt speech. McGonagall seemed to know at least some of what he was thinking, though, for her hand clasped his shoulder in an almost maternal way before she sat down.

'"It is also my deepest wish that Harry Potter, Ronald and Ginevra Weasley, and Hermione Granger be inducted into the Order of the Phoenix as soon as circumstances this summer allow,"' McGonagall was reading directly from the bottom third of the six-foot roll of parchment. '"Along with as many of their peers from the excellent Defence Club, Dumbledore's Army—"' here five sets of lips twitched in unison, matched by five owners surprised that they could find anything amusing anymore '"—that wish to join."'

'That'll make Neville happy,' Hermione murmured. On the couch diagonal to her, Ron nodded.

'Lavender, too.'

'And Luna,' Ginny added.

'All of them should join,' Harry stated firmly. 'This is what the DA was all about. It was never just Umbridge, or getting Outstanding Defence OWLs. If Hogwarts is closing, they'll need the Order for protection. And we'll need them to defend others.'

The smile that touched the corners of McGonagall's mouth was both proud and pained. 'I'm gratified to know that we are of one mind on that, Harry,' she said quietly, and then continued, '"My final item concerns the matter of leadership in the Order of the Phoenix. As Founder, I choose to name as my successors my wife, Minerva McGonagall, whose wisdom and experience fighting the Dark will serve her compatriots well, and Harry Potter, the Chosen One destined to defeat Lord Voldemort. Use the guidance you have both been given to direct the Order and we shall triumph."'

Her eyes glossed with tears as she skimmed the final, few lines of the text, but their professor did not read them aloud. She lifted her gaze to peer at Harry intently from behind her square spectacles.

The Boy Who Lived couldn't breathe. He felt as if both Bludgers had caught him in the stomach at once. _Lead _the Order of the Phoenix? No matter what Dumbledore had taught him, regardless of six years of experience personally facing down Voldemort and other Dark wizards, he wasn't ready for this. Giving orders to wizards like Alastor Moody and Kingsley Shacklebolt and witches like Tonks and Mrs Weasley was as foreign a concept as Aunt Petunia suddenly expressing magical ability.

At that thought, the peculiar impulse to laugh rose, and he set his jaw tightly, his lips thinning as it vanished.

'It is a grave responsibility,' McGonagall said quietly, meeting the hard green eyes steadily. 'But one you are equal to, Harry. To ask you to follow orders, when Albus himself entrusted you with a specific charge to stop You-Know-Who, is no more than foolishness. You will have the resources of the Order at your command to complete the task you have been given.'

Harry made no reply, but the constricting grip in his chest eased slightly at her words. He wasn't leading alone, either. She would be there with him, his firm, fair, surprisingly compassionate Head of House.

'You should return to your dormitories,' she ordered suddenly, breaking her eye-lock with Harry to sweep her gaze over the rest of them. They stirred under her attention, as if breaking a trance.

'Professor…how should I carry this?' Ginny asked, gesturing to the sword. Hermione's books were easily shoved into a quickly-Transfigured bag and Ron's objects fit into his pockets.

'And the Pensieve?' Ron queried, when it was clear that Harry was neither going to lift the heavy basin nor ask about it.

'I will Floo your gifts to Gryffindor Tower,' McGonagall told them firmly. 'It is not safe for you to carry them through the halls.' Her eyes suddenly adopted a far-away look, and with a rap on the bookcase to bring them back into the main office, she was opening the door before her students realized what she was doing.

'They're already here. Take care _not _to run in to the Minister, Potter. And no matter who asks – even fellow Order members – don't mention Albus' will.'

Murmured affirmations met her statement, and the four found themselves moving downwards on the spiralling granite escalator.

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They surged into the empty sixth-form boy's dorm, knowing that their remaining classmates would still be in the hospital.

No sooner had they arrived than the fire flared brilliant green, and McGonagall's hands passed through the shallow Pensieve and the ruby-encrusted sword.

'Gryffindor's sword,' whispered Ginny, picking it up.

'With Basilisk venom already staining the blade,' Ron murmured, his blue eyes hard once again as he studied the faintly-green, poisonous weapon. He turned to Harry abruptly. 'Did you get it? Let's kill it now.'

Harry closed his eyes, swallowing convulsively, and before he spoke, Hermione knew what he was going to say.

'You didn't get it, did you?' Ginny asked gently.

'No,' her boyfriend answered with a strangled whisper. 'No. I – we didn't get it.'

Ron sat down heavily on his bed. 'Dumbledore was wrong?'

'No,' Harry replied bitterly, pulling a long chain from his pocket. An ancient, ornate silver pendant dangled from it.

'What is that, if it's not a Horcrux?' Ron pressed, confused.

'A copy,' Ginny said quietly. At this, three pairs of eyes snapped to her, silently demanding elaboration. 'I was connected to Riddle via the diary. The _Horcrux_ diary,' she reminded them. 'I wish I could forget that feeling. Even when I wasn't writing in it, I could feel its presence. Eventually, it felt like it had embedded itself in my skin – I could sense it when I was in class and it was locked in my trunk, and even over the Easter hols when I had gone home…' she shuddered, and eyed the locket nestled harmlessly in Harry's palm. 'If a piece of Riddle were in that thing, I would know. I would _feel _it.'

Harry was nodding as she finished her explanation, putting an arm around her. 'I know. That's how I felt, too. Even before I opened it and saw this.' He was undoing the clasp. Ron and Hermione sidled closer, peering over his shoulder as the locket fell open to reveal a scrap of recently-smoothed, scribbled-on paper:

To the Dark Lord

I know I will be dead long before you read this

but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret.

I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can.

I face death in the hope that when you meet your match,

you will be mortal once more.

R.A.B.

'R.A.B…' Ron ran his callused fingers through his red hair before slumping down again. The forced confidence and genuine steadiness of the earlier battle was gone. Their trail, the object Dumbledore had died for, was a dead end, a false hope.

'So we have no idea…' Ginny picked up her brother's thoughts glumly, glancing at the now-useless sword gleaming gold and flame, reflecting the firelight roaring so happily beside it.

'None at all,' Harry answered dully, pocketing the locket once more. He wished Fawkes would sing again, allow his melody to loosen the ache that had wound once more in his chest like the Devil's Snare, but the phoenix was silent, probably gone, and the only sounds filling their ears were the crackle of the fire and the oppressive stillness of the black night.

888

Guests streamed away from the verdant lawn in the bright sunshine. It was a fitting explosion of glorious colour and riotous growth for the funeral of their brilliant, eccentric headmaster, but Hermione could not help but wish for a few clouds threatening rain. Albus Dumbledore had lived and died as a force of nature in and of himself, and it seemed unjust that the heavens did not weep at his passing.

The last several days had been amongst the most surreal and strange of a life that seemed composed of nothing but weirdness's. Snape was gone. Malfoy was gone. The school was in mourning – both for the immediate loss of the great wizard who had been a fixture in wizarding Britain for generations, and for the loss of one another.

McGonagall had announced the morning after that horrific night that Dumbledore had died, and that Hogwarts would be closing indefinitely. Hermione was grateful that her Head of House had spared them both the pain of blaming Snape in front of the whole school, though it mattered little. Within hours, the students all knew, whispers passing it from the solemn, frowning seventh years to the littlest eleven year olds. But the furious rumours that had accompanied the shattering events of previous years died down quickly as they prepared for living in a world at war. Hermione had never seen her peers act so maturely, and had the fleeting, uncharitable thought that it was about time they started.

She had heard nothing from her bondmate. The fear gnawing at her heart was the worry that she didn't want to. Harry's words in the hospital wing and their myriad implications had grooved a track in her mind. Even with all that she knew, even with all of his warnings… '_Snape passed Voldemort the information that made Voldemort hunt down my mum and dad.'_

A gentle tug disturbed her thoughts. 'We're gonna take a walk,' Ron said gently. He'd sat between Hermione and Lavender for the full service, an arm looped around each of them. Hermione looked past the concerned blue gaze of her best friend to his girlfriend, who was wiping her eyes, smearing black streaks of mascara across her temples.

'I must look a mess,' she said, catching Hermione's gaze and summoning a watery smile.

'It's easy to fix,' Hermione replied quietly. '_Tergeo.'_ The black siphoned away, along with most of the rest of the other witch's make-up, but the fashion-conscious blonde didn't seem to mind.

'Coming?' Ron asked when she did not rise.

Ginny and Harry were already striding for the lake's edge, the vivid red of her hair and the stark blackness of his bobbing deliberately against the current of students, Ministry members, and staff headed indoors.

'Of course.' She stood slowly, carefully, biting back the desire to groan. The twins were now six months along, and getting heavier all the time. She was certain her ankles had begun swelling, too. It was a shame the glamours couldn't actually make her _feel_ as slender and trim as she knew she looked.

The wind was picking up as they joined up by the lake, fluttering their bleak mourning robes open and cooling them. Hermione glanced at Ron and Lavender's tangled hands, then to where Harry had an arm around Ginny's shoulders, and felt a piercing shaft of loneliness. Fifth wheel. Unable to have with anyone the simple, united ease they shared with each another.

'Dumbledore gave me a task,' Harry started slowly, jade-green eyes locked on the iron-grey water. His voice sounded worn, tired, and Hermione glanced at him sharply, realizing he looked older, as if he carried an immense weight.

'The Horcruxes,' Ginny said.

'Yes. He thinks there are four remaining. One of them is the locket we failed to find. Another is a golden cup that once belonged to Helga Hufflepuff. He thinks Nagini, Voldemort's snake, is one. And a fourth that we don't know – but it probably belonged to Ravenclaw. Only when all four are destroyed will Voldemort himself be mortal.' He took a deep breath and now brought his eyes to meet each of theirs in turn. 'I can't ask any of you to do this with me. It's going to be dangerous. It might take years.'

'Shut up, mate,' Ron said, and though his words lacked heat, his expression was completely serious. 'We'll be there, Harry. We're going to your aunt and uncle's house with you and then we'll go with you wherever you're going.'

'No—'

Hermione shook her head. 'You said to us once before that there was time to turn back if we wanted to. We've had time, haven't we?'

'Loads,' Ginny agreed, and her arm tightened around his waist. 'This is our world, too, Harry. We're going to save it. You're welcome to come along for the ride.'

'I can make sure that you defeat Dark Lords and still come out looking glamorous for the cameras. We can't disappoint all those rabid "Chosen One" fans out there, can we?' Lavender said with a small smile.

Harry swallowed hard, opened his mouth, and couldn't speak past the sudden welling of emotion. Dumbledore's death had given rise to the fear that everyone who had loved and protected him had died. But the ferocity of his friends' – no, his _family's_ – determination made it clear how wrong he was. His eyes were glossed now as they hadn't been through Dumbledore's service, and the five of them suddenly found themselves wrapped together in a fierce hug, limbs everywhere as they squeezed hands and stepped on toes without caring.

'The first step after your aunt and uncle's is the Burrow,' Ron said firmly as they stood packed together.

'Why?' Harry could think of at least a dozen reasons he didn't want to put the Weasley family in any more danger. Two of them were standing in his embrace.

'Bill and Fleur's wedding. Mum and Dad would go spare if we all missed it. Ginny's supposed to be a bridesmaid, and Mum wanted me to ask if Lavender would be in charge of flowers.'

He couldn't insult them by refusing. And a Curse-Breaker might have valuable information for Horcrux-hunting. 'After the wedding, then.'

When they backed away from each other and started towards the school again, their strides had an air of finality that wordlessly parted what remained of the crowd surrounding their headmaster's magnificent white tomb, and drew the majority of them in their wake.

888

'Word is that since Hogwarts is closing, people seventeen and up can join the Order of the Phoenix.'

Their compartment had hissed open to reveal Neville, Dean, Seamus and Parvati all jockeying to cram through, with a hallway full of people behind them. Dean's non-querying statement brought up five heads, gazes zeroing in on the queue rapidly spreading in both directions from their section.

Ron jerked his head, indicating they should enter. 'Only you four and Luna,' he cautioned, straining to spy the Ravenclaw's dirty-blonde braid as the whole line surged, sensing movement.

'She knows. Joining us this summer,' Ginny announced.

'So…?'

'The more against Voldemort, the better,' Harry answered firmly as the door slid closed again, shutting out the protests of those outside.

'Cheers,' Seamus grinned.

Hermione gave them hard looks. 'Rescuing Harry from the Riddle House is going to look like a stroll through Diagon Alley compared to what we'll face this year.'

'Yeah, well, Muggle-born, remember?' Dean answered harshly.

'Half-blood meself,' Seamus pitched in. 'Don't reckon they'll want me around.'

'How long until the Ministry falls?' Neville asked quietly.

'We don't know—' Hermione started.

'Professor McGonagall thinks a few weeks. Two months, at the outside,' Ron cut her off.

'So where do we go?' Parvati asked. 'Where do we meet?'

'London, but the house is Secret-Kept,' Harry told her. His gaze met Ron's, a decision was made, and he ran his right hand through his lengthening black hair. 'You'll all get wedding invitations. Attend with whatever you'll need to move to Headquarters.'

The compartment door slid open, beckoning them out. 'And cast _Muffliato_ before you pass the word along,' Hermione added urgently. 'The last thing we need is Crabbe, or Goyle, or any of their friends hearing us.'

They exited into the corridor, and Harry collapsed next to Ginny. 'Mum might not be thrilled to have an extra twenty guests,' the young witch told him. 'Even if it is for the Order.'

'They won't be getting an invitation to the Burrow,' Ron said slowly, raising his eyebrows at Harry to invite the other wizard to continue.

'If the wrong person overhears, or the owl gets intercepted, or either Voldemort or the Ministry is tracking us students, I can't lead enemies into your parents' house,' Harry explained to his girlfriend. 'They'll be getting fictional wedding notices for dates spread throughout the summer, in a variety of locations.'

'Brilliant,' Hermione breathed. 'Then no one will be wondering why this large group of students who never associated at school all merit invitations to the same wedding.'

'Exactly. And if one of the invitations is intercepted, it won't compromise everyone,' Ron finished.

888

There was no one waiting for him at the train station.

Blaise Zabini felt a cold pit unfurl in the middle of his stomach. His mother had never failed to meet him here before. With the exposure of the Dark Lord, the steady growth of his army, the escalation of their violence and the closing of Hogwarts, there was only one possible reason his mother would not be here.

She couldn't be.

Sick with dread, the dark boy recalled his conversations with his traitorous Head of House. Snape's command to befriend Hermione Granger_. 'However, all that being said, I...applaud...your efforts at inter-House unity. It indicates a maturity beyond your peers and, indeed, the trends of our time. Exercise caution, Mr Zabini, as you continue.'_

Suddenly desperate, he turned on the spot and Disapparated from King's Cross Station, heedless of the Muggles that might see him disappear.

He Apparated directly into his family's old home. Smoke stung his nostrils even before his eyes opened to register a scene he'd never dreamed even in his worst nightmares.

Scorch marks blazed across the walls, through the fine drapes and tapestries in wavering lines. The burnt after-smell of violent magic filled his lungs, and he coughed, tears burning in his eyelids. Most of the furniture remained upright and untouched, as if in deliberately mockery of the shattered glass of the windows, the slashing contours of curses and hexes that gouged the marble fireplace and scattered fragments of photographs through the room.

The manor was large, but it was clear the fight had taken place in the west wing. But even with the rest of the house untouched, no one responded to his calls as he pelted through the corridors, not even the house elves.

'_Exercise caution…'_ he trapped down the unbelieving laugh that skittered to his lips as he stopped at the bottom of the grand staircase at the entry. There had been an air about Snape that whole conversation, an almost…gentleness…that completely defied anything he'd ever seen or heard about the man. He should have known. Draco had been right all along. Snape was a Death Eater, a spy for the Dark Lord, and Blaise's desire to join the Order had signed his family's death warrant.

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A/N: Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think! The lines that you recognize, both from the infirmary and a few when Harry is talking about Horcrux hunting down by the lake, come from HBP, pages 614-616, and 651-652. The note that Regulus left for Voldemort is from p. 609.


End file.
